This Is How It All Began
by Librarianbot
Summary: Once, long ago, before the Decepticons and the Autobots, before the Great War, and before the Golden Age came to an end, Cybertron was at peace. This is the story of how it all went wrong. A tragedy in many acts, with many players. Battles and politics aplenty. Updated semi-regularly.
1. Heavy Rain

_A.N.: New fic! I'm venturing back into Transformers with a massive epic retelling/personal version of how the great Autobot/Decepticon conflict began. No idea if anyone will want to read it but hey ho. If you do, don't be put off by the fact that I'm using different names for some characters - this is hopefully explained as the narative goes on and a lot of them will be fairly blooming obvious. In the meantime, enjoy and remember that your comments are always welcome!_**  
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**1.0: Heavy Rain**

**Cybertronian Mining Site Dega-Tryptic**

**Anska**

**A very long time ago**

"Get down!"

"Incoming!"

"Heavy fire in sector three – arrgh!"

"Fall back! Fall back!"

"DOWN!"

The explosion scattered the squad like a bunch of hex nuts. Bodies tumbled end over end, coming to rest on wheels and tracks and hoverjets as innate protective instincts kicked in. Engines roaring, they churned up mud and gravel in their scramble to escape the impact zone. Another volley of missiles shot overhead, the gunners shifting their aim towards the next line of defence. The shockwaves still sent several of the troops spinning end over axle, forcing them to flip back into bipedal form for a few seconds to right themselves before transforming again and re-joining the retreat.

Finally reaching a relatively intact section of the defensive wall, they regrouped and dug in again. One of them, battered red armour streaked with dirt, heaved a heavy gun into place, sighting it on the advancing enemy. "Still out'a range," he grunted.

"Wouldn't do any good anyway," a bulkier, darker trooper muttered grimly, "Most of the high-impact rounds just went up in smoke."

"At least it'd be _something_. Ah don't wanna just lie down and let 'em roll over me."

"We'll never do that," a third soldier put in.

He was slimmer than the other two but taller and just as heavily armoured. Red and blue chased each other over his frame, dulled by the same grime that covered them all.

"'Course not, sir," the dark trooper agreed, adjusting the nozzle that protruded from his left forearm, "'Course if they did, he's got least to worry about. His thick skin, they'd roll over him and he'd get up again."

"Slag yah," his cannon-wielding companion retorted amiably.

"If only the rest of us were so lucky," their commanding officer said with a shrug.

A long, high whistling sound announced the approach of another missile. On reflex, they hunkered down and braced themselves. The projectile struck somewhere behind them, sending a large chunk of wasteland flying in several directions. The dark soldier flung up his arms, energy thrumming along them. Debris rebounded from a dome of solid light, the shield flickering and dimming with every impact. Several particularly high-speed pebbles punctured the barrier completely, ricocheting off the skin of those huddling within.

"What's the slagging use of –" the red soldier began but the dark one cut him off.

"I'm running low – this is the best I can do!"

"Here comes another one!" the commander yelled.

"Everybody down!" someone added unnecessarily.

Under the din from the exploding shells and falling rocks, the commander registered the tweet of an internal communications channel. He diverted a sliver of his attention to the airwaves, unlocking the information shimmering through them with a thought. The words were very welcome.

"_Attention all ground squads. Stand by to fall back to inner perimeter. Heavy air squadrons inbound."_

"Finally," the commander murmured to himself, before addressing his squad aloud, "The flyers are coming! Prepare to transform and roll out!"

From high above, growing ever close, came the shriek of jet engines.

* * *

><p><em>Transformers and all associated characters and ideas belong to Hasbro and are used here purely for entertainment purposes.<em>


	2. Daybreak

**1.1: Daybreak**

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

**Sometime later**

This is how it began.

Maybe.

Imagine Cybertron, not as it is but as it was: the shining heart of a great and glorious empire. Imagine a world that, even then, was never still. Imagine that it did not writhe and twist as it does now, pierced by a million daggers, but that around the great immovable towers, roadways bowed and weaved in time to the needs of those who traversed them. Imagine those towers like mountains, gilded and shining in the morning sun, not yet pitted and scorched by the heat of battle. Imagine Vos, the silver city, rising into the pale sky, the tallest spires lost in the misty clouds, their glory reflected in the waters of the Iron Sea. Imagine the great arc of the Tyris Bridge crossing from shore to shore, burnished white expanse crowded with unceasing traffic.

Imagine looking down at it all and wondering if such a vista had been created simply so that it could be seen from on high in the gentle light of dawn.

Sarristec toyed with this thought as he banked over the bay, angling towards the government district, his wings stretched wide to catch the sun. Vos was without a doubt glorious. Unlike the bombastic beauty of Iacon or the grim militarism of Tarn, the architecture was sweeping and graceful, the work of artists as well as engineers. Every line swept and curved and spiralled and _soared_. It was a prayer to flight, a hymn to being able to fly. The aeries, far, far above the smoke and dirt of the lower levels, were vaulted temples honouring those who had dared to defy gravity.

The Palace of Law was the apex of the city's glory, the beauty of all the rest distilled and cast into perfection. The sheer poetry of the structure made Sarristec's systems spark with joy. He came into land, wings folding around him, legs and arms unfurling. Touching down as gently as a falling ember, he stretched languidly and surveyed his surroundings with undisguised pleasure.

"Good morning, my Lord." An elegant bronze attendant glided to his side, data packets humming in the ether around him. "I have the latest streams prepared for your download. The Conclave will assemble in thirty micro-cycles."

"Thank you, Zacarii." Sarristec had long ago learnt that names were important in politics, if only as a means of maintaining your image. "I will process the news on my way to the chamber."

With the up-to-the-cycle information whispering into his processors, he began to walk slowly into the maze of cloisters and state rooms in which the Vosian government worked, content as always to savour the regal atmosphere. Mechs, femes and avirs of all shapes and sizes milled about, handling the day-to-day running of a city-state that vied for power and position against the economic strength of Polyhex, the religious power of Iacon and the tactical might of Tarn. It was a never ceasing battle to stand proud and strong in the face of such competition, one in which defeat would mean being subsumed by their foes, the glorious city hacked apart and scattered as spoils for the undeserving. Sarristec intended to see that battle won and won well. Because that was what his position entailed. Because he would not stand by and watch his home swallowed up by its oh-so hungry enemies.

And, he reflected as he walked, because he so dearly wished that all of Cybertron could be as beautiful as Vos.

* * *

><p><strong>The East Merchant District<strong>

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

"Hey! Wheels! You done yet?"

Aratron fluttered his doors in annoyance at the voice and ignored it in favour of the pallet of batteries he was lifting up to the top of an already precarious stack. Strictly, he should have started another stack two pallets ago but space was not exactly in abundance.

"Come on Wheels! It can't take this long to put a couple of crates straight."

Wondering how his friend could possibly know how long any work was supposed to take, Aratron checked that the stack was not going to come crashing down before he came back on shift. Satisfied that it was at least nominally stable, he picked his way over to the storeroom door and re-entered the shop.

Gauun was lounging against the left hand work ramp, his doors drooping and his head flung back in a mockery of emergency stasis lock. "At last!" He could never imitate unconsciousness for long – it meant not talking. "You must be the slowest workmech this side of the Dead Ends."

Aratron shrugged expressively and closed down the body shop's computer system. It would be a few deca-cycles before Racetrack arrived for the next shift and leaving everything on would only waste power.

"So where we going tonight?"

He gave another shrug and made sure all the preview holo-constructs had closed up properly. "I dunno," he said.

"Wheels, you're hopeless. Every time I ask you where we're going, you say you don't know – bit repetitive. And every time, we end up in the same dive, with the same crowd."

That was not true, since Aratron knew that he had had to explain why he got called 'Wheels' at least three times recently, which meant that they had encountered several mechs who didn't know the embarrassing story behind it, which in turn meant they must have met new people. Somehow he doubted this would dent Gauun's conviction that they needed to get out more.

"How about we drive out to the East Ridge? Might be some fun to be had up there – bit of a snooty place but that'll just make it all the more fun. Shake 'em up a bit to see what real high-power mechs look like. Might make some of them realise what they're missing, with all that trying to be all up-class and elite."

Privately, Aratron doubted they would be especially welcome there, especially if Gauun was going to keep up his usual non-stop commentary on himself and life around him. Out loud, he simply offered a non-committal, "Whatever."

"It's settled then!" Gauun leapt away from the ramp, wheels already turning. He flipped onto them and revved his engine, limbs disappearing into his vehicle form. Beaming the alarms, Aratron followed suit, steering around the display racks and joining his friend at the street doors. Flashing his lights rakishly, Gauun shot outside, skidding erratically down the slipway.

At a more cautious pace, Aratron trailed in his wake, wondering not for the first time where the other mech found the energy to be so recklessly hyperactive all the time. It wasn't as if he had a steady means of employment or was particularly rich in his own right, was it?

Also not for the first time, Aratron followed this up by wondering why he stayed friends with the crazy glitch. It surely couldn't all be down to their shared proto-structure – it had to be one of the most common body-types of the planet and he certainly wasn't friends with most of those who had it.

Still, he mused, whatever there was to be said about life with Gauun, it was certainly never what you might call _boring_.

* * *

><p><strong>The Celestial Temple<strong>

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

"Yes, the battle on Anska has been won – _for the moment_. But if our forces there are not properly reinforced, we will still lose the drilling platforms."

As he said it, Xaaron began an internal countdown, opened a note file listing the usual responses and delineated a new column for tally marks.

Tomaandi of course was the first to speak up against the very idea of reinforcement. It was too expensive, their resources were stretched too thin and anyway, it was not necessary in the first place, because surely that many highly trained Cybertronian troops should be able to handle anything. Haacano chimed in with the brilliant observation that a lack of resources might hamper the army's effectiveness. Traachon noted that if the forces on Anska were recalled, not only would the mining platforms have to be abandoned, it would be seen as a defeat – hardly something to discourage the neighbouring stellar empires from making similar aggressive moves against Cybertron. At that, Xaaron tore himself away from his score keeping, pointing out that the Bn'rite had not exactly gone out of their way to be aggressive: it seemed clear that they had staked their claim on the planet in perfect ignorance of the mining platforms already established. Which was not an unforgivable mistake when standard Cybertronian off-world procedure was to fit in as closely as possible with the pre-existing environment. Graviitus countered that it would _encourage_ aggressive actions from other, less ignorant species who would like nothing more than to plunder Cybertron for its wealth.

Kaliton took that opportunity to ask how important the Anska mines really were. Given that they produced a comparatively low yield of usable fuel, perhaps, he suggested, tapping his front legs pensively, it would be wiser to focus their attention elsewhere. On the (much more productive) Altihex funded operation on Dromedon, for example. This immediately set off a chorus of protestations and ignited the old argument over the proper use of the planetary defence forces and the potential favouring of any one city-state above the others.

This in turn was cut off by a series of loud, dull booms.

The Prime struck his spear against the ground once more to make quite sure that he had the Council's undivided attention. "Emirates," he said in a weary tone, "You are here to discuss the situation on Anska, not to bicker over your representation in off-world interests. If you are unable to keep to the topic at hand, I suggest you take a brief recess to clear your processors."

This summary dismissal provoked considerable dissatisfied muttering, both vocal and etheric. The Prime, though, sitting regally on his great throne, was impassive and unmovable so they were left with no choice but to gather as much dignity about themselves as they could and try not to make it too obvious that they were racing to see who could get outside first.

Xaaron made sure he was the last to leave and that he stayed a good way behind his comrades in discord as they clattered and quacked their way towards their various offices. At the last minute, he doubled back and slipped through the council chamber doors before they could shut again. "You wished to speak to me in private?" he asked innocently, clearing the flag the personal communications burst had raised.

Sentinel Prime raised himself laboriously from his throne and stared down at the unimposing golden mech before him with the same cool impassiveness he had shown the council. Then his face twisted. "I take it you want the troops recalled from Anska."

"I wish to see the situation resolved for the benefit of Cybertron, my Prime."

"Don't we all?" Sentinel leaned on his spear and shook his head slowly. "And that is not the point. You are attempting to manipulate them into recalling the forces sent to defend the mines."

"I was not the one who suggested that the mines might not be worth the trouble."

"Are you denying feeding the honourable Emirate for Altihex the latest production figures?"

"He could have accessed those himself."

"Xaaron." A warning note entered the Prime's voice. "I will not allow you to divide the planetary council simply to serve your personal convictions. Convincing them to end the campaign is one thing. Forcing divisions so that further military action must be vetoed is quite another. Do I make myself clear?"

Xaaron bowed, his face blank. "Perfectly, my Prime."

* * *

><p><strong>Cybertronian Mining Site Dega-Tryptic<strong>

**Anska**

Optrion gently lifted the diminutive body from the wreckage of the tank and laid it on the ground with its kin. As deftly as he could while working one-handed, he dragged a stretch of cloth, torn from one of the numerous war tents the Bn'rite had erected before the battle, over the collection of corpses.

The Bn'rite were organic tripeds, generally around a third of the size of the average Cybertronian. Their skin was a mottled blue, scaled and banded beneath uniforms of dark brown fabrics. In death, they curled in on themselves, their six arms wrapped around their sinuous bodies, becoming even smaller. Some of them had been sliced open by shrapnel, some even sliced in half, staining clothes and surroundings with green internal fluids. Some had been crushed, either by wreckage or shockwaves. Some, such as the one Optrion had retrieved, seemed to have simply dropped dead.

All of them _were_ dead. The Cybertronian air forces had left no survivors anywhere in the expanse of churned mud, not a single one. They had driven the attackers back with pitiless efficiency, hounding them until they were either destroyed or fled. Ruthless but necessary. If the advance had not been broken, the ground forces would have been overrun.

Optrion straightened and looked around. A few other soldiers were picking over the battlefield, some doing as he was and laying out the enemy corpses, others helping wounded comrades back to the waiting medics. Only a few mechs had gone permanently offline, but a large number were missing their heads or limbs and several would need to be reformatted completely.

"Yah should get that fixed," someone said behind him.

He glanced down at the ragged hole where his right arm had once been and nodded distractedly. "Probably, yes."

Ironhide was sitting atop the ruins of a redoubt, idly fiddling with his pulse rifle. His armour was considerably cleaner now, though still scorched and pitted. He jerked his head towards the troop ships squatting on the horizon. "Ratchet told me ta drag you back by the axles if that's what it took ta get yah ta report ta him."

"I'm sure he did. But since it is not spark-threatening, I think it will keep for a little while longer."

The older mech waved dismissively. "Yhor shut-down."

Knowing Ratchet, Optrion thought it far more likely that he would be kept fully online, just so that he could feel every painful reconnection. The surgeon's ire, however, did not especially frighten him and he was content to delay the inevitable. His optics swept the battlefield once more. Overhead, a flyer was circling lazily, on the lookout for any renewed attack. "We were lucky," he commented, studying the wrecked Bn'rite tank, "These are more advanced than the home-world authorities would like to admit."

"Yeah," Ironhide agreed, without looking up, "Lucky."

Optrion moved closer, examining the main gun, comparing the energy projector to the Cybertronian equivalent. Yes, it was not the governing councils' policy to acknowledge how close some of their alien neighbours were coming to matching them in terms of military technology. The minute lifespan of organic beings was nothing if not a spur for innovation.

"Well," he said, straightening and turning to head off to meet his doom a.k.a. Field Medic (Second Class) Toiinat, a.k.a. Ratchet the Terrible, "thank the Allspark its mechs like Megatron calling the shots out here."

* * *

><p><em>Transformers and all associated characters and ideas belong to Hasbro and are used here purely for entertainment purposes.<em>


	3. Nights Before

**1.2: Nights Before**

**The East Ridge Plaza**

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

The East Ridge might have been home to the high and the mighty but it was not as impressive as it sounded. As with everywhere else, lighting restrictions had left the nights dark and lifeless. The broad-spectrum illuminations that had once blazed from every building lay dormant and their low-energy successors did little to make the place look attractive. In fact, they only added to the gloom that seemed to hang over the streets.

Guaan, however, was undeterred and the interior of the oil-house into which he led Aratron fitted the picture of the elite end of town considerably more than its exterior. Everything was clean and polished and if not brightly then artistically lit. Those present fitted their surroundings perfectly. They were all high-end models, fitted with the latest mods and the best bodywork going. Several groups were clustered on the various platforms ranged in a spiral up the main room, chattering loudly on most of the major wavelengths. The largest crowd was clustered around an ornate mech who was regaling them with his personal opinions on life, the universe and everything.

At first, Aratron paid little attention to the rant. He was too busy being distracted by the way members of the mech's audience kept pressing against each other, blue sparks fizzing as they touched. There was not exactly a taboo against 'crackling' but it was definitely not something Aratron had ever considered doing in public.

"…would know if you'd ever seen it," the vocal mech was saying when he finally tuned in, "An absolute waste of good materials, if you ask me. Hideous_ and _ whole line should be reformatted."

"I've heard it's quite a popular form on the gladiatorial circuit," a feme sitting on the shoulder of one of the other mechs put in tremulously. As soon as she said it, she covered her mouth with both hands, shocked at her own audacity in mentioning something so risqué.

The orator was unfazed. "No doubt. Big and ugly probably strikes about the right note with the barbarians who like that sort of thing."

"Ever seen a match?" the mech acting as the feme's perch asked curiously, stirring a beaker of oil with his finger.

"Absolutely not! What a terrible thought!" Loud-voice's delicate white fins flapped and curled indignantly. "If you ask me, the Magnus should stamp it out – literally if that's what it takes."

"Bit hard to defend when it's part of the state games," a thickset green mech pointed out.

"Hah! Properly refereed and adjudicated and even then it's a brutish sort of sport. No skill, no artistry – simple violence played to a crowd. Merely encourages the menial classes to brawl and damage themselves when they should be working. Small wonder there's unrest when those supposedly leading us actively encourage aggression in the dregs."

"Have you heard about the latest outrage?" The feme again, clearly excited at being able to report another scandal. "An entire sky-dock in Tagen Heights! They say it was the _foremech_! Can you believe that?"

"Absolutely," the orator said vehemently, "They may be brought online as a higher grade but they're surrounded by menials day after day. It's hardly surprising that they degrade."

As he was listening to this new proclamation, the big green mech noticed the two newcomers standing nearby. Their drab silver bodies and black trim made them stand out in the upmarket oil-house as much as the clientele's gilt trim would have made them stand out in a Polyhex slum. Slowly but inevitably, the rest of the group turned to see what their companion was looking at.

Gauun's expression was painfully cheery. "Oh, don't mind us. It's all really fascinating – very interesting theory. Do you think if we hang around with clean-living elite types like you, we'll end up raising our grades just like that? I mean, if hanging around with 'dregs' brings it down, it's only logical that hanging around with over-revved shine-freaks like you would take it up. Right? Oh, sorry, did I say that last bit out loud? I mean, over-revved, _over-fuelled_ shine-freaks like you."

"I think," began Loud-voice with chilly and forced calmness, "you must have come through the wrong door."

"I don't think so. This is an oil-house and we want oil, so I think we're in the right place. We were going to order when we got distracted by your stirring lecture on the times we live in. Isn't that right, Wheels?"

"Yeah," Aratron agreed cautiously, eying the now distinctly miffed mechs around them, "Right."

"I very much doubt you would be able to afford the quality of oil served here," Loud-voice grated, his optics burning brighter green with every word, "And even if you could, I suspect it would be too rich for you to handle."

"Too weak, more like," Gauun corrected, before adding amiably, "But we'll try it anyway."

And with that, he led the way to the bar.

* * *

><p><strong>The Palace of Law<strong>

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

"The disruption to the Tagen Heights is affecting our traders less than we feared. We will still be able to achieve our quotas, although there may be some delay in doing so." Lord Vvnet paused, blue armour flaring a little, as Lord Geneion indicated he wished to speak.

"Some delay?" The flyer's voice was scratchy with age. "What is that supposed to mean? We have roads to build – a city to maintain."

"Not to mention war wings to equip," Lord Myyoc put in, tail flicking back and forth, "If your traders are going to be even a cycle late, my timetables will be thrown into disarray."

Vvnet pressed her fingers together and glanced at the war minister irritably. "Around four cycles' delay will be unavoidable but I hardly think you can be doing your job particularly well if that is all it takes to throw you into disarray."

"My lords…" Lord Taynset's soft voice cut through the squabble before it could begin. "This is not the Prime's council chamber. We all work towards the same goal. Let us do so with some measure of decorum. Now. The trade delays are not a matter over which we can exert much control, so I suggest we move on to consider matters on which our discussions _will_ have some bearing. I believe Lord Sarristec wished to raise a point about the payment of the lower grade menials."

Sarristec acknowledged the invitation, ducking his head. Taynset made him nervous and not just because he was the first among equals, the senior Lord of Vos. There was something about the sleek teal mech, with his neat, sharp wings and soft yellow eyes that spoke of total confidence, as if he had nothing to prove to anyone. Naturally enough, this made those around him feel precisely the opposite.

"Ah…yes. My Lords." Brushing at an invisible speck of dust on his forearm, Sarristec gathered his thoughts. "It has come to my attention that the rations allocated to the majority of the menial grades working under our jurisdiction have been declining over the course of the past few mega-cycles. While this is understandable, I think the cuts have been more severe than was strictly necessary, especially when considering energy allocation elsewhere. I recommend an immediate three per cent increase in fuel rations, with a possible rise to four and a half per cent should it prove viable."

There was a moment's dumbfounded silence. "Are you _suggesting_," Vvnet growled, that we squander resources on rewarding _menials_?"

"Absolutely not!" Sarristec bristled at the suggestion. "Rewards are for those who go above and beyond their duty, menials merely perform their function. But their functions are still vital to our city and they must have the strength to perform them. Besides…" A slightly sly note entered his voice. "It would go some way to prevent the civil unrest that threatens our neighbours' stability. It would show, would it not, that we are a beacon of sanity in this world. There could be no question of the destruction of vital facilities here."

He let the threat of insurrection and the lure of gaining face before the other cities sink in. Lord Omnitron, who had so far been silent, raised a questioning finger, dark optic strip momentarily brightening. "From where is this three per cent to be conjured?"

Sarristec smiled. "We must, of course, take the lead and sacrifice part of our allocated power for the good of the city. But," he continued quickly, "I thought that most of it could be reassigned from the energy currently set aside for use by the officers of the Magnus and the representatives of the sundry High Council ministries that we are required to support. The fuel shortage _is_ an issue of planetary importance, so they could hardly begrudge making such a small sacrifice for the sake of Vos' continued stability. We do, after all, constitute a large part of Cybertron's economic infrastructure."

That pleased them. When in doubt, put one over on the central government. Taynset motioned for quiet, cutting off the murmur of approval. "I think we can all agree that, if Lord Sarristec's proposal can be carried out, it will prove popular."

Sarristec froze, the sudden recognition of a victory too easily won stealing over him. Had he over reached himself? A Lord he may have been but he was still a junior among the Conclave and he was arguing for a major shift in policy, one that would have consequences both at home and abroad. He knew the stakes, he thought he could get away with it, use it to bolster his support among plebs and elite alike. Was there something he had overlooked, some way in which Taynset could turn the proposal against him?

"And I believe that if it is to be carried out, it must be done so under the optic of the mech who devised it. That is only fair, after all."

Sarristec's ventilators began to turn somewhat more easily. That was as much as he had expected and he was ready both to turn it to his personal advantage and escape it if that became necessary. "I would be honoured by such an appointment," he said, with as much grace as he could muster.

Another murmur of approval went around the table. Taynset inclined his head. "Then so be it. Congratulations, my Lord Sarristec."

Bowing in response, Sarristec did his best to hide his satisfaction.

* * *

><p><strong>Cybertronian Mining Site Dega-Tryptic<strong>

**Anska**

The liquid metal flowed slowly and painfully into the connection port, coalescing into the rudiments of an endoskeleton – and no more. The moment the joints and connections had reach the lowest level of structural cohesion, the flow of raw proto-matter was cut off and a jolt of energy stabilised the embryonic limb.

"Is that it?" Optrion asked, trying not to sound petulant.

"That is it," Ratchet growled, jerking the dispenser hose away irritably, "I need to save it for more important patients than idiot squad leaders who ram their arms down tank barrels."

Optrion chuckled to himself and stood up, flexing his new arm. "How long until I can get it properly rebuilt?"

"How should I know?" The doctor hauled the vat of proto-matter on towards the next repair berth. "How long until they stop dragging in mechs with holes in them?"

Abruptly serious again, the taller red and blue armoured mech surveyed the crowded field station. Soldiers in various states of disrepair filled every available berth, some transformed, some in vehicle mode, some stuck halfway between. More than a few were in need of new hands, limbs, wheels and treads. There was even a flyer, looming over the ground-bound troopers and looking very subdued, one of his wings hanging in tatters.

"Hey," a voice called from behind them, "if you're done fixing up the boss-mech, how's about getting' me a SCRAPPING HEAD?"

Optrion looked round to find that they were being addressed by a battered green tank, who was glaring at them from his seat on an upturned crate. Or would have been glaring if everything above his jaw had not been missing.

"Slag you, Bombshock" Ratchet retorted with the cool professionalism for which he was noted, "Frag me, if I'd known you had enough left in you to reroute your vocal processors, I'd have added an extra hole or two to keep you down."

"Oh, that's nice," 'Bombshock' fumed, "I spend all my time keeping your pearly white skidplate in one piece and you don't even fix me up when I need it."

"Eh, shut up. It's just your head. And it's an improvement. You look less slagging ugly like this. You planning on standing there all day?" The white mech's attention had switched back to Optrion. "Go do some commanding and get the Pit out of my light."

Leaving the doctor to his patients, Optrion made his way out into the open, emerging into the red light of the Anska day. He stretched his arms experimentally, making minute adjustments to his balance to compensate for his newly evened weight. The freshly cast joints felt both stiff and weak but time would improve them. In a few cycles, he would be back to full strength and once the new armour was fitted, ready for battle again.

The camp was relatively quiet as he crossed it, those mechs not on guard either with the medics or on recharge cycles. A few were scattered around, cleaning weapons or fixing equipment. He nodded to another squad leader and took the rough path up to where the command platforms have been positioned, passing under the shadow of the bulky communications boosters. And for the second time in as many cycles, someone called out from behind him.

"So. Do you make a habit of disarming yourself at the same time as your enemy?"

The first thing anyone noticed – the first thing _to_ notice – about Field Commander Megatron was his size. He was easily head and shoulders above most mechs. Even Optrion, by no means small himself, had to look up to meet his optic. The reasons for that were varied. He had not exactly been compact in the first place, formatted as he had been as a heavy labourer in Tarn, a city known for the stature of its progeny. A course of less than legal upgrades during his days as an 'athlete' had only increased his height and bulk. Adding to that the dermal armour and weapons systems fitted as standard to every member of the Cybertronian military, he had become a truly formidable sight.

Optrion snapped to attention, more than a little embarrassed to find himself addressed in such a manner by his superior officer. "Not a habit, exactly, sir."

"Hm." The silver grey mech looked down at the laser cannon he was cleaning. "And yet when a tank breaks your line, your response is to sacrifice a limb to destroy its offensive capabilities."

"May I explain, sir?"

Megatron's optics flickered to a slightly lighter yellow. "I think you had better."

"The tank broke through by overcharging its motivator, sir, and opened fire on my squad at point-blank range. We were almost out of ammo and I doubted we would be able to breach its armour in time anyway. So, I…ah…"

"Jammed your arm down its main barrel," Megatron completed.

"Yes sir."

There was a protracted silence as he finished clearing out the cannon's stock. Deftly, he jerked the weapon and slammed the casing closed again. Then he threw back his head and roared with laughter. "An impressive piece of improvisation," he said once he had regained his composure and pulled himself away from the support pillar he had been leaning against. He clapped Optrion on the still-armoured shoulder and stowed the laser cannon.

"I did what I had to, sir."

"And did it well. I approve of commanders who are prepared take risks alongside those under their command – provided it pays off, of course." He turned and beckoned Optrion.

"I looked up your record," he added once they were in motion, "This battlefield saw plenty of the usual heroic nonsense but your actions stood out enough to arouse my curiosity – if only because of who you are. It's rare indeed to see an Iaconian, much less an Iaconian [i]_officer[/i]_ willing to get his skin scratched in the line of duty." This was said with considerable conviction and not a little contempt.

"You, ah, don't like Iaconians, sir?"

"No," Megatron agreed, "I do not. You, however, show considerable promise. You're here for a start."

Optrion hesitated then decided that some response to this was indeed expected. "I felt I could best serve Cybertron by helping defend it from outside attack."

"Good. You would have been wasted as a _ceremonial_ guard."

It was high praise indeed from a mech famed for leading some of the most successful campaigns in Cybertronian history. Fortunately, before Optrion was forced to try to think up a suitable reply, a dark shape materialised on the edge of his vision, making him jerk to one side to avoid it.

The black quadruped chuckled softly as he dropped down from a barricade. He fell into step beside the commander, fangs glinting as he spoke. "Bentwing's squad is on a return vector. They will be here within the cycle."

"Excellent." Megatron did not even break stride. "Is the ops-suite prepared?"

"Yes commander."

"Then signal Bentwing to meet us there."

"Commander."

The quadruped loped dutifully away. Apparently suddenly remembering that the red and blue mech was at his side, Megatron turned back to Optrion, a flash of irritation crossing his expression. "It would appear we have no time to discuss your close-combat methods in more detail. I will need all squads prepped and on standby. Give your mechs a head-start and pass the word." With that, he too quickened his pace and followed his subordinate towards the largest of the command platforms.

If he noticed Optrion's reflexive salute, he did not acknowledge it.

* * *

><p><em>Transformers and all associated characters and ideas belong to Hasbro and are used here purely for entertainment purposes.<em>


	4. Important Information

**1.3: Important Information**

**Planetary News Feed**

**Qosho Region Local**

**Cybertron**

"_...and though the news has been largely well received by Vos' labouring classes, many have dismissed it as a cynical move to ensure continued support for the current administration. Some political observers have also asked whether the redistribution of power away from High Council facilities is an act of deliberate provocation from a city that has long campaigned for greater autonomy from the planetary government. As yet, no statement has been issued by the Celestial Temple but sources in Iacon Central have indicated that the Prime is disappointed that the Lords of Vos undertook this new plan without prior consultation._

"_Five sub-orbital platforms in the Tagan Heights were reactivated this morning following extensive repairs and upgrades in the wake of the crash of the Maximo Sky Dock. Six platforms remain non-operational though local authorities are confident that at least three will be brought back online tomorrow. Repairs to surface facilities are expected to take much longer. Emergency crews are still working to secure the impact site itself. Their efforts are being delayed by extensive looting, which it is widely believed is being instigated by the criminal Black Shadow brotherhood. Two squads of Civic Guards have now taken up position at the site in order to prevent further criminal activity._

"_We have just been informed investigation into sabotage aboard the Maximo has entered a new phase with the arrest of three Tagan dockworkers on charges of sedition and incitement to commit acts of insurrection. This follows the arrest of the Maximo's formech, who it is understood will be transferred to a high security holding facility for further questioning. Official data-feeds remain closed over whether a larger subversive organisation is implicated._

"_More on these events as they develop."_

* * *

><p><strong>Habitation Complex #62<strong>

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

Groaning, Aratron rocked from side to side, trying to find some relief from the ache in his axles. His suspension squeaked unpleasantly. The ache persisted. In fact, it got worse. He was just debating whether powering down again would go some way to speeding up his internal repairs when the shift alarm boomed through the complex, the lighting strips automatically switching themselves up to full.

Swearing enthusiastically, he transformed, scrambling to activate the energon dispenser before it was shut off for the morning. In the process, he managed to land several resounding kicks against Gauun's side. Jerking online with a yell, he too transformed, flailing for balance as sluggish gyros failed to properly register the change in shape. The combination of scrambling, flailing and a habitation pod that could only comfortably house two mechs if they wedged themselves in in vehicle form resulted in a loud crash and a pile of twitching limbs.

"Thank you." Aratron's voice drifted up from somewhere near the floor. "I really didn't think we got enough dents from being thrown over a cliff last night."

"Oh, quit complaining," Gauun retorted, pulling his leg out from under his friend, "It wasn't really a cliff. More a wall. And anyway, you can't say it wasn't worth it for the looks on their faces. Bunch of stuck up dipsticks. They think that was a good time? Never been to a decent rave in their lives. Too busy over-revving in their luxury apartments. Alone probably. Well, we showed 'em, didn't we? Proper fun, that's what we have, the kind they're too afraid to have –"

"You got sloshed and smashed a sculpture." Aratron shoved his friend off and stood up. "Access: Ara Mech Tron Verous Klyda," he growled at the squat box set into the wall, "Dispense morning ration."

The box thrummed and clicked open, disgorging a flattened cube full of shimmering liquid. As soon as Aratron had taken it, Gauun shouldered him aside. "Gau Mech Un Verous Klyda. Give me power, you brainless piece of scrap. I'm running on fumes here!"

Another cube dropped into the silver mech's hands. He held it up to optic-level and studied with disgust. "Is that _all_? A turbo-rat couldn't run on this!"

"Well maybe if you actually _worked_ once in a while…" Aratron muttered, halfway through absorbing his ration.

Gauun rounded on him. "Hey, I work! It's not my fault if no one can appreciate my artistic ability!"

"You can't be bothered to keep your catalogue updated – how is that _not_ your fault?"

"I'm not going to lower my standards because there's no mech between here and Polyhex with any taste!"

"You're a low-grade decal designer," Aratron practically shouted, "You're not a slagging artist!" With single violent movement he crushed the emptied energon cube between his hands, reducing it to crystal power. "And I'm not going to be late and get _my_ pay cut because of _your_ crazy ideas about having a good time!" He beamed the door to open and stormed onto the terrace. All around him, hundreds of labour-grade mechs were flooding out of the habitation complex. The shaft, with its eighty levels of dormer pods, reverberated to the sound of engines, wheeled form after wheeled form spiralling up the central ramps towards the surface.

Gauun, stumbling after him, yelped as the door snapped shut again. "Hey! Oh, come on, I'm not that bad! I'm not! _Wheels_!"

Pointedly ignoring him, Aratron transformed. A jolt of pain ran through his axles as his tyres hit the road. He shuddered but drove on all the same. The upward traffic flow quickly sucked him in and before he knew it, the dishevelled figure that was Gauun had been left far behind.

* * *

><p><strong>Cybertronian Mining Site Dega-Tryptic<strong>

**Anska**

The Iaconian entered the command platform with the self-assured step of an experienced soldier but his nervousness was betrayed by the swift movements of his optics. Ravage, padding silently around the rim of the low, cylindrical chamber, supressed the urge to chuckle. Poor little road-wheeler. All awe-struck at being called into the inner sanctum.

It was the only acceptable reaction. He was coming into the presence of a giant among mechs, both literally and figuratively, and the absence of healthy respect would have been unforgivable. Naturally, Megatron made no effort to put the newcomer at ease. As was only proper, he simply raised a hand to beckon the squad leader over, not even turning from the sweep of tactical displays that dominated the room.

Sizing this 'Optrion' up, Ravage quickly identified thirteen ways to fatally incapacitate him. Most of them centred on striking for the weakened right arm. A quick scan of the personnel records threw up a couple of potential psychological points that could be used against him too, certain combat tendencies that made him vulnerable. The psychological profile also indicated that treachery from him was not overly likely.

Ultimately, Ravage concluded, he was not a significant threat. He could be dealt with if necessary and the probability that it would be was not all that high.

Optrion joined Megatron by the display, shifting into a neutral 'at ease' position. Ravage moved to link himself into the platform's communications system, shunting the latest information from the remote monitoring stations to the main hologram panels. Megatron nodded curtly and slid a map of Anska's northern hemisphere in front of Optrion. "Bentwing's reconnaissance squad have scouted the Bn'rite encampment in more detail than our previous sensor forays." The map spiralled in to show seven heavily fortified compounds surrounded by gun emplacements and tanks. Symbols flashed across the image: estimated troop distributions, energy emissions, terrain composition. "Built up from disassembled transports – standard tactics for them – and positioned around the exploration shafts they sunk when they first landed."

Tilting his head to the side, Optrion slowly lifted a finger and gestured at the three core compounds. "They're pulling their remaining troops back to protect their centre. The hardware distribution is meant to hide it but they're definitely consolidating."

"Very good," Megatron rumbled with a grim smile, "That's exactly what they're doing. They've done a pretty good job of hiding it from our long-range probes but Bentwing was able to get a handful of infiltrators onto the ground. Mostly as rocks but we've got a few who've managed passable imitations of local wildlife. They've confirmed – some even got off some live reports – that the Bn'rite have pulled almost two thirds of their force back to that central position. And thanks to some heavy analysis, we now know why." The hologram zoomed in further, until only a single compound was visible. This spooled open, walls and buildings being disassembled to uncover their internal workings, or close approximations thereof. One particular structure, a squat cylindrical machine, was pulled to the fore and highlighted in a bewildering array of colours. It rose up, a long, flared spike extruding from its lower surface.

"A geothermal tap," Optrion murmured quietly, the significance of the device evidently not lost on him. Ravage could not help but be impressed. The Iaconian must have done his research well.

Megatron clearly shared the sentiment, for his grim smile returned. "Exactly. They've extended the largest shaft and built it in. Probably been using tank movement to mask the vibrations from their drills."

"And launched an all-out attack on our ground forces to keep us distracted," Optrion added, "No wonder they committed so many troops. If they get that tap activated…"

"They'll have all the power they need to dig in and we'll be staring at each other until one of us rusts," Megatron finished angrily, hand clenching, "With that power supply, they can shoot down our transporters just as effectively as we can shoot down theirs and no one will get this wretched planet's resources." The commander paused and Ravage watched Optrion carefully, waiting to see if he would pick up on the invitation to offer his opinion on the situation. After a moment, he did.

"We need to destroy it before it's activated. And that will probably mean the end of them. It doesn't seem likely that they will have the means to repair a machine that big and complicated."

"Glad you agree," Megatron replied, dead-pan.

The tone seemed to spur the Iaconian into being a bit more daring with his observations. He pointed to a schematic plan of the Bn'rite compounds. "The embedded weapons are mainly anti-aircraft. They're more afraid of being attacked from the air than from the ground. Since most of our heavy ordinance is carried by our flyers, they're right to be. But if we get enough ground troops through their perimeter, they could do enough damage to put the tap out of commission. Or at least make an aerial strike possible…" He trailed off. "Or rather, we could have, prior to their all-out attack on us."

Megatron gave another curt nod and scaled the display down again. "Yes," he growled, "Organic or not, they are intelligent enough to see the flaws in their own defences. Now, with so many of our soldiers damaged, we can't mount an effective large scale ground offensive. Fortunately, neither can the Bn'rite." He crossed his arms. "They sacrificed a massive number of troops to that attack. Not enough that they can't defend their camp but enough to weaken that defence. A ground squad striking hard enough and fast enough could punch through and cause havoc behind their lines."

"They'd be overwhelmed," Optrion said bluntly, "and there would be no guarantee of success."

"There would be," Megatron answered, annoyed at the interruption, "if causing havoc was the objective. As large a squad as possible, carrying sensor disruption packages to be detonated within their inner perimeter. They'd be forced to rely on sight targeting. Enough to make a normal aerial assault futile. Not enough to stop _this_."

Casually, he flicked a tactical animation in front of the squad leader. Optrion watched silently as Megatron's proposed strategy played out before him. The commander stood back and watched him appraisingly. Ravage watched them both, golden optics drifting lazily from one to the other. At length, Optrion's vocaliser issued a bass hum. He glanced up at Megatron. "I'm to lead the ground attack?"

There was, Ravage thought, an odd mix of youth and war-weariness behind the question. Resignation jostling with uncertainty.

"I don't give junior officers private briefings simply because their exploits amuse me," Megatron said with not a little good humour.

"There are more experienced soldiers, sir." It was not so much a protest as a statement, a fact that might have a bearing on the situation.

"Most of whom will be needed for the second stage. You –" and Megatron punctuated the word by clapping Optrion on the shoulder, "You are the mech who held his ground even when it meant sticking his arm down a gun barrel. That's the kind of tenacity I need going up against those ground defences. Soldiers who accept that they and those under them are going to die are no use to me. I need someone who won't accept that this could be a suicide run but will make damn sure it's not. That's you." He turned away. "Ravage, transfer the lists of available troops to Squad Leader Optrion. Optrion, if you think any of them aren't up to this, for any reason, notify Ravage and leave them out. Your mission, your call. Dismissed."

"Sir!" Optrion saluted smartly and marched out, pausing only long enough to receive transmitted data-files. Ravage watched him go with a faint smile, examining the set of his shoulders and the subtle lengthening of his stride.

"Something amusing you?" Megatron rumbled, apparently able to read Ravage's expression without actually needing to look.

Ravage laughed softly. "Simply recalling another young squad leader the first time he was given the responsibility for a key mission because there were no other candidates."

The only reply to this observation was a faint sub-vocalisation.

* * *

><p><em>Transformers and all associated characters and ideas belong to Hasbro and are used here purely for entertainment purposes.<em>


	5. Side Effects

**1.4: Side Effects**

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

"Of course it's political." Graviitus sounded astonished that the question even needed to be asked. "Sarristec has a very generous public face but no one really doubts that he's got lofty ambitions."

Xaaron did his level best to refrain from pointing out that surely everyone in Vos must have lofty ambitions. Was that not part of the point of a city renowned for its flyers? Much to his own surprise, he succeeded and uttered the much less flippant rejoinder, "But political which way?"

Graviitus frowned, wings flexing. "I'm not sure I understand you."

This was not a vast surprise. The honourable Emirate for Vos was not widely known for his towering intellect. It was widely believed that his nomination to the post had been a deliberate insult to the High Council on the part of Lord Taynset. No one had actually questioned the Vosian leader's choice, of course, largely from the misguided belief that a fool would be an easy target at the debating table. As it turned out, a fool with Lord Taynset's words in his vocaliser was a positively terrifying opponent, made even worse by his natural belligerence and tenacity.

"I mean," Xaaron began, turning his chair slightly towards the floor-to-ceiling window that dominated his office, "what is the ultimate end? Is this meant as a way of bolstering Sarristec's popularity? Or of the ruling Lords in general? Is it a rebellion against the Council? Or just a precaution against energy riots? And then there is the issue of where the energy saved by reducing the Council's allowance in Vos is being redistributed to."

"What issue?" Graviitus demanded, "That energy will now be allocated to the hardworking menial-grades who maintain Vos' standing as one of Cybertron's greatest city-states," he explained, regurgitating the official press release verbatim.

"Quite…" Xaaron pressed the tips of his fingers together. "But of course according to Vos' own systems, many of its menials occupy positions in _military _organisations. Some might conclude that for all the public good intentions surrounding this new energy plan, it is fundamentally a means of strengthening the Vosian strategic position in the Qosho region."

"That," Graviitus snarled, slamming a clawed fist into an open palm, "is a conclusion that could only be the product of Tarnian paranoia. We have always been dedicated to peaceful coexistence with our neighbours. Whatever steps we take to ensure the protection of our citizens, we would _never_ commit ourselves to any form of aggression."

"Of course. Nova Cronum respects that and remains dedicated to maintaining its many partnerships with Vos." Turning back round to face his fellow Emirate, Xaaron spread his hands. "We simply do not want _anyone_ to have _any_ doubt over Vos' intentions in this matter."

"In that case, I can assure you that Lord Sarristec proposed this plan first and foremost as a means of averting unrest in these troubled times. He looks to the people of Vos for his support – as all the Lords do – and does not wish to suffer the fate of the likes of Lamdatron of Protihex." Gravitus rose from his seat with dignity, wings arching high. "And the Lords of Vos' _intentions_ in accepting the plan are nothing more or less than keeping our people fed and content despite the High Council's inept handling of the current situation. I hope that Nova Cronum is _satisfied_ with that explanation."

"Of course," Xaaron said mildly, rising also, "Thank you so very much for providing it."

With a grunt and a curt bow, Graviitus swept out.

Xaaron sat back down, drumming his fingers against an armrest. After a moment, he gave a short, derisive hum and triggered a visual channel. The holographic image of Tryptatrion, Speaker for Nova Cronum, swam into existence before him.

"Good news," he said with heavy sarcasm, "I can confirm that Vos insists it has no ulterior motives whatsoever. Now, returning to the Anska issue…"

* * *

><p><strong>Lord Sarristec's Apartment<strong>

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

They were talking about him on the news feeds again. The local 'casters had been coming back to the new energy plan at regular intervals since it had first been announced and naturally that meant that his name kept coming to the fore. Reclining on a divan, Sarristec allowed himself a broad, satisfied smile as one particularly enthusiastic pundit praised his foresight and benevolence in advancing the plan. It was always so pleasant to have one's ideas recognised, applauded even.

A chiming communication channel brought him out of his reflection. Composing himself quickly, he shunted the news feed aside and redirected the incoming call to the apartment's holographic matrix. A stocky, drably coloured flyer materialised before him, bowing immediately and with little grace. The awkward gesture completed, he brought his hands up to his chest and began fiddling with a set of overlapping plates that presumably belonged to his vehicle form's tail. He could not have more obviously have been a menial in the presence of his betters if he had appeared covered in grime and toting a load of some kind.

Sarristec gave his most charming smile and inclined his head just far enough to show respect without deference. "Workmaster Tesauun, isn't it?"

"Um…" Tesauun began eloquently, "Most people just call me Hot House, sir."

"Then permit me to do the same. What can I do for you, Hot House?"

"Well, actually sir…it's about what you've done for me. For us." The workmaster composed himself, forcing his hands back down to his sides. "We wanted to be the first labour union to thank you for all you've done. You've no idea what a difference this extra three per cent is going to make. Well, err, you probably do, sir, of course." Hot House laughed nervously.

Chuckling as well, to put the mech at ease, Sarristec accepted the thanks graciously. "How soon do you expect to see visible benefits from the increased allowance?" he asked.

"Oh, right away sir, right away. Even if it just means we can go longer between shut-down periods, we think this might make us four or five per cent more productive."

"Your crews are willing to work longer shifts?"

"Of course sir!" The workmaster sounded moderately offended by the idea that anyone could doubt it. "You give us the power, we'll work. We're not Tarnians – we don't run off to play games when there's work to be done."

Making a noise that was broadly noncommittal but implicitly approving of Hot House's casually nationalist slur on Vos' nearest neighbours, Sarristec lifted a hand. "Of course you will. And despite the current shortages, as long as I am in power, I will work for and with the unions to ensure that they have all the energy they need."

"We're all behind you, sir. You need anything, Union One Four Three will be right there to help you out."

"Thank you." Sarristec made a show of consulting his schedules. "Now, please excuse me. I'd love to talk more but I have a very full day."

With an effusive babble of thank-yous and apologies for disturbing him, Hot House's image evaporated.

Sarristec settled back on the divan and returned to the news feed, contemplating whether he knew anyone who might be willing to trade some trivial favour for the services of a construction crew or two.

* * *

><p><strong>Central Compound<strong>

**Bn'rite Encampment**

**Anska**

In spite of muscles that ached from fatigue, First Kor moved restlessly through the compound, his long, loping strides kicking up small clouds of dark green dust. The first time he had seen the mining site, the prevalence of that ugly colour, so like dried blood, had evoked equally ugly images of death and defeat. Time had only justified that unreasoning, instinctual response.

He had witnessed the battle from the fringes, allowing First Kirvi to lead the charge. She, the more aggressive of the two, had been the better choice. And to her credit, she had cut a swathe through the Machines' ranks, her forces bringing many of them down before eventually falling to their overwhelming air power. Ultimately though, the attack had to be considered a failure. Too many of the Machines remained operational and, if the scouts spoke truly, many of those who had been felled were being rapidly repaired.

It was only a matter of time before the reprisals began.

Kor's front nostril flared as he rounded the corner of an anti-aircraft battery and caught the distinct scent of fused metal. Arcs of light sporadically illuminated the brooding shape that lurked behind the camp's control tower, making monsters out of the labouring technicians' shadows. The geothermal siphon was but a few short spans from being finished and once it was, they would have the power to raise a deflection field around the entire hillside, barricading themselves in against the Machines' onslaught.

Those few short spans might as well have been an eternity. Of the twenty heavy sects the Bn'rite had landed, Kor had three left at his disposal, along with the fragmentary remains of two more. His anti-aircraft guns would undoubtedly deter the kind of bombing raid that had destroyed Kirvi but they would be little use if the enemy got in close – and Kor did not believe for a moment it could not. He had seen the weird, shifting, bipedal _things_ weather even point-blank tank fire, and they were ungodly fast. Nothing that large and unbalanced should be able to move so nimbly and yet they did, dancing around the lumbering heavy artillery, on legs one moment, on wheels the next.

Involuntarily, Kor's upper shoulders slid inwards. He quickly coughed and rubbed at them, disguising the fear reflex as a reaction to the abominable chill that dusk always brought.

A Second hailed him, joining his left hands in a salute. "We've caught another one, First."

Tossing his head in acknowledgement, grateful for the distraction, Kor demanded details.

It was a familiar story. They had been rooting out the infiltrators since the Machines had made their aerial sortie of the encampment. Rocks that mysteriously appeared near vital equipment. Small, scuttling things that registered on the energy detectors. Cable-like worms that burrowed down into the mine shafts. This instance was no different from the dozen previous to it. A rock had been caught shifting into the form of a small, six-legged creature. It had tried to slip into the control tower, only to be cornered and neutralised by observant sentries.

Kor told the Second to commend the soldiers in question and ordered the remains transferred to a laboratory in one of the other compounds. With all available science personnel working on the siphon, there would be no one to dissect the blackened tangles of gears and wires. Detailed studies of their foe's spies would have to wait.

A rattling cheer from the technicians drew Kor's attention and he felt a surge of hope as he saw that one of the three heat exchange vanes had been activated. The siphon's great cylindrical body emitted a series of low moans as the machinery inside began to turn. Dismissing the Second, Kor loped across to where the chief engineer stood haranguing her aides.

"Three spans," Pavra announced in answer to the First's unasked question, "Though there's a good chance installing the next two vanes with it powered up will tear the whole thing apart. And we're going to lose more workers. I can tell you that for nothing."

"Do you think we have a choice?"

She glanced sideways at him, hard violet eyes becoming angry vertical slits. "No. But if you've got any more troopers with technical training, we need them here."

"They're all already here," he assured her, "Or they're in the medical house, as good as dead."

The chief engineer snorted and, without asking permission to leave, stormed off to supervise the installation of the next vane.

Crossing his arms, Kor looked up at the siphon, recalling how he had watched its components being loaded aboard the deep-space cruiser before lift-off from the homeworld. He had marvelled at their size and intricacy, and had planned for the siphon's immediate construction on arrival, to strengthen what he already considered a very strong defensive position. The lethally agile aircraft that had forced the cruiser down a good way shy of its intended landing site had disabused him of the notion that securing the Bn'rite foothold would be so simple a matter. But it had not been until he had watched seventeen heavy sects torn apart by a relative handful of machine creatures that it had occurred to him it might be impossible.

With their shifting bodies and expertly camouflaged bases, the Machines seemed to have stepped out of the nightmare stories of Kor's childhood: great metal ogres burrowing up from the ground to feast upon the unworthy. Surely someone must have built them. Yet in all their engagements with them, no evidence of any pilot or controller had been found. And the way they moved, the strange expressiveness of what must surely be their faces…

Kor spun on his hindmost heel and propelled himself towards the control tower. He could not afford to brood in front of his already demoralised forces. There were strategies to refine, tank deployments to revise, communications to send to the homeworld – a million trivial tasks to keep him from thoughts better left un-thought. Forcing himself to focus on military minutiae, he began to climb the staircase that led to the upper observation deck. Being able to see first-hand the layout of the position he needed to defend always helped with planning, if only by cutting through the overwhelming mass of data that computer readouts provided –

The compound's klaxons screamed. Kor froze with two feet on the third storey walkway then bolted the remaining distance into the observation deck, shoving past the sentries to get a clear view down through the foothills. Symbols were flashing across the crystal windows, alerts and tactical data painted in bright blues and greens. Magnified images sprung up next to them, transmissions from perimeter drones whose proximity sensors were going wild.

Kor needed none of it. The observation deck offered clear line of sight right the way across the plains below and he could see with own eyes the clouds of dust billowing up on the horizon, the dark shapes racing ahead of them. And he was sure, even over the howling alarms, that he could hear the roar of alien engines, hungry for vengeance.

The Machines were coming for them.

* * *

><p><em>Transformers and all associated characters and ideas belong to Hasbro and are used here purely for entertainment purposes.<em>


	6. Battle Protocol

**1.5: Battle Protocol**

**Plains**

**Anska**

Gunning his engine, Optrion roared up the short, rocky rise, shells from the Bn'rite forward positions tearing the air apart above him. At the last moment, with his front wheels grazing the top of the rise, he flung himself sideways. Half-transforming, he dived for the lower ground as missiles pulverised the incline behind him. He crashed back to earth, hands shooting out to take the impact then pulling in again as he folded back into vehicle mode and rocketed onwards.

Around him, fifty-two ground warriors bounced and tumbled across the plain amidst an increasingly heavy bombardment. Incoming fire and wild driving filled the air with clouds of dust and smoke. The local vegetation was rapidly being reduced to a few sorry clumps, eaten up by jagged craters and erratic tyre tracks. Those soldiers who could were returning the Bn'rite's fire, sending bolts of light streaming up through the evening gloom towards the tanks that clung to the hillsides like angry limpets. Since the attack force had to evade a concentrated enemy barrage, most of the shots were falling short or going wide, throwing up yet more debris and doing little to deter the Bn'rite gunners.

A low-slung hoverjet cruised past Optrion, engines burning bright beneath dark blue armour. Tilting sharply, the mech managed to avoid one volley only to veer into the path of another. The shells slammed into him and his insensate body went pin-wheeling backwards, consumed by fire. Optrion swerved wildly, cursing as the shockwave from another blast nearly sent him end over axle. He regained his balance just in time to see two heavily armoured transporters blown off their wheels by an earth-shattering explosion that marked the landscape with the deepest gouge yet.

"Squad leader to all point mechs," he beamed to the communications relay, "New ordinance detected. Identify immediately."

"They've turned – ah, _slaggit_!" The response was obliterated by a burst of static.

"They've moved some sort of heavy gun into place," another voice cut in, "Can't get a clear line of sight on it."

"I've got a target!" a third voice joined in, "Taking the shot!"

"We're not coverin' enough ground here," Ironhide broke in on another, more direct channel, his dull red form barrelling out of the smoke, "Too much time dodgin', not enough gettin' forward."

"We've got twenty mechs within two hix of their forward perimeter," Optrion replied calmly, using a sharp zigzag manoeuvre to avoid another out-of-control body, "Which as of – now includes the two of us.

"Slag me," the older soldier muttered, "There ah was thinkin' yah might be loosin' control."

"Not yet." Flipping channels, Optrion tapped back into the relay. "All point mechs – release stage one flares. Wave two – close up for full strike on the central compound. Wave three – fan out and begin diversion manoeuvres."

A thousand miniature supernovas filled the darkening Anska sky, bathing the Bn'rite camp in high-intensity electromagnetic radiation. The effect lasted mere moments but it was more than enough to blind the troops positioned at the perimeter. And the instant the tank fire slackened, Optrion's soldiers accelerated hard.

The second wave bunched up into a rough arrow, homing in on the western side of the Bn'rite lines. Opening up with missiles and machine guns, they scattered the defenders, cutting the pockets of infantry down with ease and blowing three tanks into blackened shrapnel. The other positions were far too slow to respond, their attention forcibly split between an abruptly concentrated onslaught and the Cybertronian rear guard still weaving about on the fringes of the plain. Warriors peeling off from the wedge formation were able to dart with ease under the remaining tanks' barrels and empty plasma rounds into their flanks. Within a few microcycles of the flares, the Bn'rite perimeter lay wide open, their remaining forces retreating at full speed back under the relative protection of the stationary guns mounted on the walls of the mining compounds.

Slewing to a halt, transforming and hunkering down behind a particularly large boulder, Optrion quickly surveyed the scene, marking the close-range turrets as they opened up on the invading force. Ironhide slammed down next to him, rolling into a crouch, weapons humming fiercely. "Yah ready fer this?" he asked shortly, hands flexing.

Optrion locked his rifle into place, hand transforming to seal around the stock. "Absolutely."

And he launched himself into the crossfire.

* * *

><p><strong>The Celestial Temple<strong>

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

The muted muttering of the Emirates and their aides faded as the Prime entered the council chamber, his spear beating time against the Temple's ornately patterned floors. Sentinel paused on the threshold, his white optics flaring ever so slightly. The Emirates rose and bowed, some more flamboyantly than others.

Acknowledging their show of respect with a single slow nod, the aged mech strode through the centre of the chamber, through the circle of seats and perches the Council occupied. Ascending to the high platform on which the huge, intricately engraved throne stood flanked by golden pillars, Sentinel turned to survey the assembly, spear coming down with one last resounding boom. Then, at last, he took his seat. The Emirates followed suit, several of the lower-ranking aides slinking out of the chamber before the great doors could slam shut.

"This Council is in session," Sentinel announced, his voice filling the hall, "Praise the Allspark. Hail the Flame."

"Praise the Allspark," came the refrain, "Hail the Prime."

"Given the latest report from Anska, I believe a decision on the matter is now of paramount importance." Kaliton was the first to speak, folding his claws together as he made the proposal.

Xaaron lifted a hand. "I second this."

"We all consider the matter of vital importance, I think," Tomaandi grumbled, "Is anyone intending to suggest firm courses of action?"

"Iacon moves for the immediate deployment of reinforcements," Traachon responded, his antenna vibrating slightly, "If Megatron is unable to prevent the activation of the Bn'rite geothermal power supply, it is unlikely he will be able to repulse their beachhead."

"And do you really think these aliens will be content with simply securing their position?" Graviitus demanded, "Once they can properly defend themselves, how long do you think it will take them to bring in their own reinforcements?"

Kaliton's claws snapped. "I move that all forces currently deployed on Anska be recalled immediately. Altihex does not consider the mining operation there to be profitable enough to justify the resources being expended in its defence. _Particularly_ if that defence means a protracted conflict with an alien power."

A discordant chorus of agreement and protest greeted the counter-proposal. Half a dozen Emirates began speaking over one another, expressing half a dozen conflicting opinions on the issue and berating the others for not agreeing with them on every point.

It took the echoing slam of the Prime's spear against the dais to return the Council to order. He said nothing, merely regarded them with a stern expression long enough for them to remember what had happened the last time their discussions had become an out-right argument. With somewhat more decorum, they resumed, Traachon nipping in ahead of his peers to begin a long, excruciatingly detailed speech outlining all the reasons military action on Anska needed to be continued and, indeed, reinforced at the earliest opportunity.

Sentinel watched impassively from his throne. His gold and vermilion body was almost perfectly still, which had the curious effect of blurring the line between the mech and the surrounding decoration. Only the minute adjustments of his head and eyes as he followed the debate betrayed the fact that he was not just another statue.

His gaze lingered briefly upon the Emirate for Nova Cronum, perhaps recalling previous exchanges. For his part, Xaaron appeared content to attend keenly to the words of his peers without offering any in return. He had the look of a polite spectator, and the most it seemed he was concealing was his usual, slightly self-satisfied amusement at the proceedings.

Only time would tell how long that would last.

* * *

><p><strong>Command and Control Tower<strong>

**Bn'rite Encampment**

**Anska**

"Realign Compound Two's north-east guns to cover Compound Three's south-west walls!" First Kor seized the edge of the operations chart, bracing himself as the observation deck shook violently. He tried to locate the source of the explosion but the speed and close confines of the battle were overloading the tactical readouts, making it impossible to trace every missile's trajectory.

"Power loss to eastern deflection barrier!" one of the operations techs shouted, frantically manipulating one of the control consoles, "Defence guns in that sector destroyed!"

"Reassign squad six to compensate." Kor glanced up at the semi-circle of windows that, in theory, allowed him to survey the battlefield. Unfortunately, nightfall and an obscuring pall of smoke had reduced visibility so far that only brief flashes of the conflict could be seen, caught in the glare of swinging spotlights and the glow of weapons fire.

With one source of information blinded and the other suffering from the opposite problem, Kor had to base his decisions on the constant stream of communications chatter flooding into the command post from those fighting the battle first hand. Hardly a reliable and consistent source of information at the best of times, the chaos outside was making it positively unsound, leaving the First with increasingly large holes in his bigger picture.

He was therefore not willing to believe that he could discern, within the intermittent flurry of information, a subtle thinning of the enemies' ranks. He could see their energy signatures faltering on the screens, in some cases blinking out entirely. Soldiers on the ground reported toppling the giants, bringing them to their knees, blowing their armoured bodies apart. He had even caught sight of one of the Machines going down, pounded by the point-defence guns until its armour shattered and it collapsed, clawing uselessly at the air. The short-range defences, deployed at point-blank range, seemed to be doing what all the tanks and ranged artillery had not.

The temptation to accept that the tide was turning in the Bn'rite's favour was immense. But every shudder and every scream over the communications channels reminded Kor that his men were still dying and that even if the Machines were being worn down, any lapse in concentration would be fatal. Still, when the Chief Engineer's voice broke through the hubbub to announce in excited tones that the geothermal siphon's second vane was operational, he could not resist slapping his lower right hands together in a gesture of triumph.

A fresh energy filled the control room, a new purpose entering the operators' movements. Capitalising on the surge in morale, Kor sent two of the nearest active tanks charging forward to meet the enemy's advance head on. He scowled, examining the readouts, drawing out the meaning amid the madness, then ordered two more to retreat to flank the central compound. Together with the forces already stationed within the walls, they might be able to keep the Machines at bay long enough to –

"First!" A Second, her face flushed with panic, called out from her monitoring post. "We've lost deflection barriers on the north wall!"

"Enemy troops on attack run!" another operator yelled, as if Kor could not already see the patterns leaping out from the sensor inputs, or hear the roar of missile impacts.

Outside, spotlights swung round to better illuminate the north side of the compound. The grey expanse of the wall visibly shook under another assault then fell still as the sentry guns opened up at full power on whatever was on the other side.

For an instant, Kor thought the strange shift in the wall's colour was down to the harsh light shed by the gunfire. It was not. A strange _dampness_ was spreading out from a spot roughly halfway up. More than that, the surface of the wall was beginning to _bubble_.

Kor opened his mouths to order a full report of what was happening but before he could utter a single word, a hulking red vehicle erupted through the melting surface, acid still dripping from the bizarre looking weapon projecting from its roof. Without needing to be ordered to do so, the troops inside the compound fired. Their shots bounced harmlessly off the Machine's armour, and it swerved aside, allowing another, larger red vehicle, this one trimmed with blue and riding on six wheels, to burst through the hole in the wall.

A tank roared around from behind the control tower, blasting away as it came. The red and blue Machine weaved through the hail of shells then suddenly surged upwards, exploding into a flurry of pistons and panels. These swiftly resolved into a towering figure that bodily tackled the oncoming war machine, driving it backwards. The first Machine changed too, the strange gun leaping into one huge metal hand and spewing forth, not acid this time, but a jet of freezing liquid that left a flash-frost on everything it touched. Soldiers keeled over, their limbs curling in on their bodies in death. The tank's armour buckled, unable to stand the strain of being cooled so quickly.

The red and blue creature stood back and levelled the barrel of a weapon that seemed to be fused into its arm. Kor screamed at the operators to realign the remaining guns, to turn them to aim inside the compound. The order came too late. The alien _thing_ fired and a lance of golden light reduced the tank and its crew to a blazing fireball.

Almost simultaneously, the Bn'rite retaliation smashed into the Machine's hide, shells peppering its hideous form from all angles. Staggered, it nearly fell. Its fellow rushed to its side, giving it covering fire with more streams of destructive chemicals.

The red and blue Machine lifted its head to look up at the control tower, to look straight at Kor with the two yellow lamps that sat were its eyes should have been. Those lamps shifted a fraction, expressing something the First did not – could not – comprehend.

All his righteous fury drained away in an instant and he was turned cold by the unknowable depths of the alien's gaze.

And then, to his horror, every single Bn'rite sensor system crashed at once.

* * *

><p><em>Transformers and all associated characters and ideas belong to Hasbro and are used here purely for entertainment purposes.<em>


	7. Point of Impact

**1.6: Point of Impact**

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

"It is still not fully understood how Cybertron converts sunlight into chemical potential!" Aetalon's fist pounded against his thigh. The Emirate for Simfur's single eye had contracted to a fiercely burning point. "The solar harvester project is wonderful _in theory_ but it is _only_ a theory! We can't give up existing resource planets because a _theory_ says we _might_ not have to rely on them in the future!"

"Existing resource planets are only worth protecting if they are _providing_ resources!" Tomaandi insisted fervently, "It has surely been established by now that Anska is a weak investment –"

"Nothing of the kind has been established!" wailed the Emirate for Tagan, his wheels whirring plaintively, "Despite Altihex's attempts to distort the evidence! Praxus maintains that given enough time, Anska would be a very valuable –"

"Time spent beating off constant alien attacks!" Haacano rumbled, "In light of the reports that the Bn'rite are preparing for a second invasion attempt, Tarn sides with Altihex: this planet is not worth an extended off-world conflict."

Graviitus gave a howl of derision. "Tarn would have Cybertron bow to off-worlders, would it? Vos insists that we cannot allow lesser powers to dictate our mining and exploration programmes!"

"Vos insists on a great many things," came the instant retort, "often without giving full consideration to the consequences!"

"We reject the implication of that statement!" Graviitus roared.

Glancing up at the throne, Xaaron wondered why Sentinel was allowing the argument to escalate. The Prime had made no move to call for order, despite the increasing disorder with which the debate was being conducted. He was slightly surprised to find that Sentinel was looking back at _him_, optics bright with focus. They held each other's gaze for a moment, then Xaaron looked back at the Council. Traachon was desperately trying to calm Graviitus down as the other Emirates were began splitting off into sub-conferences, the global political alliances manifesting in miniature, any hope of a swift resolution rapidly evaporating.

Resignedly, Xaaron began to beat his fist against the side of his chair.

* * *

><p><strong>Central Compound<strong>

**Bn'rite Encampment**

**Anska**

Growling in pain, Optrion dodged behind the control tower. Disrupting the Bn'rite's electronic targeting systems had done nothing to stop them manually aiming their weapons and the punishment he had taken getting so far into their territory made it doubtful he would survive many more direct hits. Which was going to be a problem, since the tanks that had been flanking the compound were now firing wildly and continuously through the hole Ironhide had made in its protective wall.

Spikes of agony shot through the back of Optrion's knees and he whirled to find that a trio of Bn'rite troopers had managed to sneak up behind him, an impressive feat given that they were carrying a kind of four-barrelled cannon between them. He wondered if his rear sensors had been obscured by battle-damage or compromised by the sensor-jamming pack. Despite the normal precautions when handling such devices, it was not unknown for those using them to be affected along with their targets.

He loosed a volley of ion bolts and sent the aliens scattering, their exposed skin burnt and blistered.  
>"Everythin' still und'r control?" Ironhide asked, ducking round to join his squad leader, smoke still pouring from where Bn'rite munitions had flattened themselves against his armour.<br>"Why would you think it wasn't?" Optrion shot back. A shell promptly impacted a hand's width from his foot, blowing the two of them backwards and showering them in dirt and shrapnel. He threw a warning look at the red warrior, daring him to comment.

Smirking, Ironhide jerked a thumb towards the opposite end of the compound. "Yah think we should try ta take the tap out?"

"We wouldn't make it. And besides…" Optrion pointed up. "Listen."

New sounds had joined the cacophony of the battle, the high whine of straining motors and the resounding thump of flak being launched skywards. Arcs of superheated metal began to pour into the night as the encampment's anti-aircraft guns sprang to life.

They were much too late.

Transformed for atmospheric flight, hull spread out into a great delta wing, the Cybertronian space-cruiser rocketed overhead, followed nano-cycles later by a sonic-boom so powerful it nearly flattened everyone below into the ground. The Bn'rite guns, deafened and blinded, tried in vain to bring it down. Though they scored a few hits simply because it was too big a target to escape entirely unscathed, most of the fire streamed impotently past, the ship hurtling onwards unhindered. The guns swung in an attempt to track it and struck nothing but its exhaust fumes.

Focusing on the retreating spacecraft was the last mistake of the gunners' lives.

The twenty heavily-built mechs who had leapt from the cargo-bay doors plummeted unseen towards the buildings below until, at the last possible moment, they triggered their thrust packs, high-energy gravity pulses providing just enough lift to prevent them from being dashed to bits by the landing. As the boost slowed their descent, most of them transformed, shifting into massive tracked vehicles loaded down with weaponry.

The last one to land did so only after pushing his thrust pack to the limit. Actually swooping back upwards, he covered two hix more than he might otherwise have done before slamming into the ground in the middle of the central compound, still in bipedal form, knees bending to absorb the impact. Drawing himself up to his full height, he stretched, shed the smouldering thruster and roared. In one fluid movement, he collapsed into a tank bigger and more heavily armed than any of the rest. His gun barrels slid out of their housings, already belching fire. The first shot ploughed through the control tower and practically sliced it in two.

Megatron had arrived.

* * *

><p><strong>The Celestial Temple<strong>

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

"Emirates, we are straying from the point," Xaaron said once he had the Council's full attention, "Again." This was greeted with irritated but subdued muttering, several of the gold-clad mechs throwing glances at the Prime. Xaaron ignored them. "Each city has its own perspective on this matter, naturally, but trying to persuade each other that we are right and they are wrong is only serving to make this Council appear divided and indecisive."

Of course, this Council _was_ divided and indecisive and everyone knew it but no self-respecting Emirate would ever _admit_ as much. It would have been tantamount to admitting that they were fundamentally superfluous and therefore had no reason to be stationed in Iacon, a city renowned for the luxury of its high-end habitation districts. The only thing potentially more damaging was the possibility that outsiders might reach that same conclusion unaided and take it upon themselves to do something rash. Like conduct a detailed investigation into councillors' living costs, for example.

"Besides which," Xaaron continued, having hesitated momentarily to allow his peers to work out the implications for themselves, "the longer we procrastinate, the more lives will be lost on Anska. Megatron intends to attack before the Bn'rite can secure their position – he may already have done so – and whatever the outcome, that battle will be costly for both sides. Moreover, it is unwise to assume that success on one battlefield will automatically lead to victory on another. I have been a soldier – I know first-hand how changeable the fortunes of war are." He paused again, allowing those mechs who, like him, had seen military service to offer gestures of acknowledgement. Tomaandi shifted uncomfortably, lacing his fingers together, but said nothing. Noting this with some pleasure, Xaaron went on. "In all likelihood, _neither_ side will be able to adequately defend a claim to the planet with the forces currently deployed there. Therefore, both we and the Bn'rite face the same choice – send reinforcements or leave Anska. And we must both make that decision quickly, lest the other side move in first.

"As to how the Bn'rite will respond, it is perhaps worth considering the fact that they, given their biological nature and technological state, have a narrower choice of colonisable planets. We are flexible. We can pick and choose those planets that will give us the maximum resource yield, regardless of their surface conditions. The Bn'rite cannot. It is in their interests to fight and fight hard for every world they discover to be inhabitable by their species. I find it unlikely they will not attempt to secure another bridgehead on Anska. Indeed, as the honourable Emirate for Tarn pointed out, long-range monitoring already indicates increased activity in their home system, possibly as a prelude to a second interstellar mission.

"I consider it even less likely that they will not make a concerted effort to avenge the losses incurred by their first mission." Xaaron smiled slightly. "A futile effort, perhaps. But as I have said, battles are costly. Whatever we decide, we must be satisfied that Cybertron can live with the consequences. Shutting down the operations on Anska will be a blow to those states that have an investment in them, there is no doubt of that. Equally, there can be no doubt that a long term military operation would be a drain on _every_ state.

"It is our duty to weigh these considerations and determine the optimum course of action. I believe we have had more than enough time to do so," he concluded, placing his hands together in an echo of Tomaandi's earlier gesture. "The government I have the honour to represent agrees with my assessment. As such, Nova Cronum moves for an immediate vote on the Anska issue."  
>"Tarn seconds this." Hacaano stated, just beating Kaliton to the punch.<p>

Agreement, enthusiastic, resigned and grudging, was slowly signalled by each member of the council. Traachon was the one who proposed the final motion. This, of course, was Iacon's right as the de facto planetary capital. His glance at Xaaron, however, suggested that in this case it was a right he was not eager to exercise. Clearly he did not think much of his city's chances in the approaching vote.

"The motion is this: that reinforcements be immediately dispatched to aid with the security and defence of the mining operations being conducted on the planet designated Anska, on the understanding that if this does not happen, the Anska operations will perforce have to be abandoned and all troops currently deployed, recalled. All those in favour?"

* * *

><p><strong>Bn'rite Encampment<strong>

**Anska**

It was glorious to behold.

The heavy brigade cleaved remorselessly through the Bn'rite fortifications, their guns obliterating stone and metal and flesh and bone with equal ease. Throughout the encampment, walls came tumbling down, their foundations erupting into volcanic blooms, blown apart by concussion missiles and magma grenades. Mining equipment – heavy lifters and massive reinforced drills – melted as coruscating energy beams bored into them, their superstructures collapsing and breaking apart with a kind of chaotic beauty that most sculptors would have killed to replicate. Control towers crumbled before the angry songs of sonic cannons, crystal and stone shattering to powder and exploding outward in fantastic dark clouds.

Ravage had secured the perfect vantage point from which to admire the slaughter. From atop a largely intact guard tower someway above the camp, he could fully appreciate the artistry inherent in the destruction being wrought upon Cybertron's enemies and, as much as his duties allowed, he permitted himself to become absorbed in the spectacle.

The Bn'rite had been thrown completely off balance. The tanks so effective at range and against more lightly armoured foes were helpless in the face of the Cybertronian shock troops. Their blazing wrecks soon adorned the hills alongside the ruins of the buildings they had been trying to protect. Ground troops and technicians scattering in panic before the onslaught were quickly crushed under tread, their occasional attempts to fight back little more than an irritation to the attackers. No tiny hand-held alien weapon was going to breach _these_ warriors' armour.

At the centre of the attack was Megatron, the axis on which the wheel of battle was turning. The silver giant's first act had been to systematically reduce the main tower to dust and ashes, his guns sweeping to and fro until nothing remained of it or its inhabitants. Then he had turned his attention to the geothermal tap. He forced his way through – and over – the remaining defenders, physically ramming one of the tanks aside before detonating another with a well-aimed burst of laser fire. Transforming as he reached the foot of the massive cylinder, he swatted engineers from their gantries and drove a fist through the main surface control cabin. That done, he stood back, lifted his rifles and calmly fired shot after shot after shot into the semi-functional power supply's heart.

At first this seemed to do little, the sting of an insect on the hide of a great beast of burden. But in no time at all, whole sections of the machine were open to the stinking air and its insides were aflame, twisting and distorting as laser bolts hammered into them again and again and again. Torn free from its housing as the internal mechanisms unbalanced, one of the heat exchange vanes erupted from the shell, a great metal knife crushing its way through delicate pipework and heavy-duty support beams.

Megatron paused briefly as two – perhaps the last two – Bn'rite tanks charged at him. They did not fire, presumably because they had already exhausted their ammunition. Their crews must have been determined to go down fighting in any way they could. An honourable but pointless gesture. One of them never made it near Megatron. Two Cybertronians – the Iaconian and one of his troopers – sprang upon it and, between them, flipped it onto its back. And as the other rushed heedlessly on, Megatron sprang forward to meet it, rifles retracting into his arms, and seized it in both hands. He heaved, lifting it clean off the ground, and whirled, flinging the tank with all his might towards the siphon. It crashed through the wreckage and, with a great rushing howl of tortured metal, the whole thing began to slip with thunderous inevitability into the shaft in which it had been constructed.

To all intents and purposes, the battle was over in that moment. Megatron stood victorious again. As if there could ever have been any doubt. The field commander bellowed in triumph, a cry echoed by every Cybertronian still standing or rolling.

Intending to add his voice to the chorus, Ravage began to transform. A sudden burst of signals stopped him in his tracks and he quickly settled back into radio mast mode. His function as a battlefield communications relay overrode everything, even the right to celebrate victory. An urgent voice quickly materialised out of the decoding algorithms, that of the planetary comms officer. Her tone was disbelieving and Ravage could not help but feel an echo of that same incredulity as he heard what she was saying.

He contacted Megatron immediately, relaying the message and requesting a response. For a long, painful moment there was none. When Megatron did speak, it was in a low, angry growl. _"Repeat. That. Communication."_

Wishing with all his being that there was no communication to repeat, Ravage obeyed. _"Message reads: Priority instruction to field commander, Anska expeditionary force. New High Council edict – all military operations on Anska to cease. All forces currently deployed to withdraw to the Dion Prima Staging Ground and await new orders. All mining personnel and equipment to be evacuated and returned to Cybertron. All remaining Cybertronian technology to be reduced to basic constituents and destroyed. Please acknowledge receipt of this communication immediately."_

Another, longer silence followed. Ravage could feel his commander's anger almost as a physical blow, even from so far away. Finally, Megatron's voice cut across the airwaves, as cold as space. _"Communication _acknowledged_. Relay this to all forces in play: withdraw immediately to Dega Tryptic and prepare to leave Anska; repeat, withdraw immediately._

_"And relay _this_ to the High Council: _the battle here has been won_."_

* * *

><p><em>Transformers and all associated characters and ideas belong to Hasbro and are used here purely for entertainment purposes.<em>


	8. Lift Off

**1.7: Lift Off**

**Cybertronian Mining Site Dega-Tryptic**

**Anska**

The last mining platform finished folding up and heaved itself from the ground, beginning its slow rise to meet the waiting space cruiser. Optrion turned and surveyed the rest of the camp, now almost completely stripped of equipment. Only one command platform was still in place and even that was already reconfigured into transport mode. A scattering of soldiers remained on the ground, ostensibly as sentries, but in truth there was little left to guard and even less left to guard against.

A last pointless gesture in an utterly pointless campaign.

Optrion's hands curled into fists. Many good mechs had died fighting for Anska, many more remained in stasis lock and in the end it had all been for nothing. At a stroke, all the deaths and all the slaughter had been rendered completely unnecessary.

Throwing himself angrily into vehicle mode, he charged through the empty camp, scanning for any equipment or debris that had been overlooked. Standard procedure required all evidence of Cybertronian activity to be erased, insofar as that was possible, and it was the responsibility of all squad leaders to ensure this had been carried out properly. True, Optrion was probably not in the best frame of mind for such a task either, but responsibility did not step aside because of one's personal grievances.

He drove recklessly, without heed for the conditions or the aggravation of his wounds, trying to find focus in the motion and the feel of his wheels on the torn-up earth. With grinding slowness, it came, the cool clarity of radar and infra-red, microwaves and geophysics taking the edge off his anger. Soon he had located and collected a few small components that had evaded earlier sweeps, carefully storing them so they could be cleaned and sorted later.

It was as he was retrieving a minute power regulator that he caught sight of the brooding figure on the fringe of the former camp. Even at a distance, there was no mistaking Megatron. His powerful form was stark against the dark landscape, silver armour turned deep orange by the dawn light. He stood with his arms folded, staring out across the plains, head moving slightly this way and that as he followed the swoops and dives of the winged animals searching for food amidst the churned mud.

"Take my advice: don't."

Megatron's lieutenant lay stretched out on a large nearby rock, watching him through half-shielded optics. Which was something of a shock given that Optrion had scanned that particular rock thoroughly mere nano-cycles earlier.

"Don't what?" he asked, reversing slightly.

"Show your support. Try to snap him out of it. Go anywhere near him." The black quad languidly raised a paw and waved towards his superior. "Trust me: he would not thank you."

A little disconcerted – he had indeed been debating whether he should speak to Megatron, if only in the spirit of comradeship – Optrion shifted uncomfortably on his suspension. "Oh…of course. I understand."

"No you don't," Ravage replied with a smile, "But at least you try."

"I understand why he's angry." Irked by the condescending tone, Optrion responded with more heat than he had intended. "He has every right to be. We've finally secured this planet and now we're just going to walk away from it."

"Of course we are." Ravage examined his claws, sliding them in and out of their housings. "Allspark forbid that the great and glorious High Council ever reverses a decision on account of something as trivial as the facts."

Optrion frowned, disturbed by the cool sarcasm. "That's not what I meant."

"No?"

"I…" He tried to work out what he _had_ meant. He had certainly not been trying to imply that the Council were foolish for not changing their minds. They must have had good reasons for making the choice they had, reasons that still existed even though the Bn'rite had been defeated…

"They should have decided sooner," he said eventually, "We needn't have lost so many if they'd just been quicker to decide this planet wasn't worth fighting for."

"Hmm." Ravage rose to sit on his haunches. "How very Iaconian of you." He sprang to the ground and Optrion realised that Megatron had begun to march back into the camp, apparently still lost in thought.

With a flick of his tail and not so much as a backwards glance, Ravage slinked away after the field commander, vanishing from sight and sensor as abruptly as he had appeared. Left alone with the debris, Optrion tried to figure out which particular aspect of being 'Iaconian' he had just been insulted about. Quickly deciding it was not worth the processing power, he went back to scanning, determined to lose himself once again in dispassionate topography.

Behind him, with a whine of motivators, the folded command platform finally pulled up its moorings and rose into the morning sky, the standard of Cybertron lifting from Anska's soil for the last time.

* * *

><p><strong>End of Act 1<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Cast – Act 1<strong>

**Name (Nickname) – Function – Full designation [Name – Base Form – Template – Birthing Well]**

**Sentinel Prime** () – Prime of Cybertron

**Xaaron** () – Emirate of Nova Cronum – _Xa Mech Aron Tava Szenda_

**Graviitus** () – Emirate of Vos – _Gravi Mech Itus Lyivas Keldon_

**Haacano** () – Emirate of Tarn – _Haac Mech Ano Tava Szenda_

**Tomaandi** () – Emirate of Praxus – _Toma Mech Andi Verous Klyda_

**Traachon** () – Emirate of Iacon – _Traac Mech Hon Ias Zar_

**Kalitron** () – Emirate of Altihex –_ Kali Hexi Tron Roda Corvis_

**Aetalon** () – Emirate of Simfur – _Aeta Cyol Lon Dradia Chemil_

**Optrion** () – Planetary Defence Force Squad Leader – _Op Mech Trion Novus Zar_

Zerinat (**Ironhide**) – Planetary Defence Force Trooper – _Zer Mech Inat Cosa Hexus_

Toiinat (**Ratchet**) – Planetary Defence Force Medic – _Toi Mech Inat Cosa Hexus_

**Megatron** () – Planetary Defence Force Field Commander – _Mega Mech Tron Tava Szenda_

Rahshiv (**Ravage**) – Planetary Defence Force Lieutenant – _Rah Quad Shiv Temla Corvis_

Hialuxx (**Trailbreaker**) – Planetary Defence Force Trooper – _Hial Mech Uxx Roda Zar_

Deoparl (**Bombshock**) – Planetary Defence Force Trooper – _Deo Mech Parl Tava Chemil_

Rotec (**Bentwing**) – Planetary Defence Force Squad Leader – _Ro Mech Tec Lyivas Keldon_

**Taynset** () – High Lord of Vos – _Tayns Mech Et Lyivas Keldon_

**Sarristec** () – Lord of Vos – _Saris Mech Tec Lyivas Keldon_

**Geneion** () – Lord of Vos – _Genei Mech On Lyivas Keldon_

**Vvnet** () – Lord of Vos – _Vvn Feme Et Lyivas Tema_

**Omnitron** () – Lord of Vos – _Omni Mech Tron Tava Szenda_

**Myyoc** () – Lord of Vos – _Myy Quad Oc Tava Corvis_

Tesauun (**Hot House**) – Workmaster, Union Four One Three – _Tesau Mech Un Lyvias Keldon_

**Zacarii** () – Palace of Law Attendant – _Zaca Trac Rii_ _Tava Szenda_

**Gauun** () – Decal Designer – _Gau Mech Un Verous Klyda_

**Aratron** (Wheels) – Body-shop Worker – _Ara Mech Tron Verous Klyda_

**Kor** – Bn'rite First

**Kivri** – Bn'rite First

**Pavra** – Bn'rite Chief Engineer


	9. Shrikebats

**Act 2: The Last Days**

**2.0: Shrikebats**

**Cybertronian Mining Operation**

**Planet Dromedon**

**A very long time ago**

Nothing on Dromedon was ever dry. No matter how hard you tried, the infernal _damp_ got everywhere. It seeped into every piece of equipment, ever storage crate, every _joint_. Every night you came off patrol soaking and even after a full rest cycle, you still squelched when you moved.

Worse still, the conditions allowed the local plants to flourish to an unholy degree. Gigantic trees blocked out most of the natural light, their boughs weaving together into an impenetrable mesh that made low-level flight impossible. What wasn't blocked off by branches was festooned with creepers and vines, the kind that clung and stuck and caught until you became so hopelessly tangled up in the things that you couldn't move. Algae and mould bloomed _everywhere_, on every surface that was porous enough to take them, leaving the few bits of truly solid ground slippery and treacherous. If that wasn't bad enough, the rest of the ground consisted entirely of a layer of weeds and slime covering the kind of bog that sucked you inexorably downwards, your body flooding with foul black sludge.

The only thing worse than the plant life was the animal life.

Snarling, Megatron fired a salvo of energy bolts into the whirling mass of slick purple bodies. The burning red light simply vanished into the creatures' midst. It must have killed or at least injured a dozen of them but their sheer numbers made it impossible to tell that any had fallen. Around him, the rest of the battalion kept up similarly futile barrages, most while trying to free themselves from the various pitfalls the terrain offered.

Nothing seemed to deter the bats. Most weapons only succeeded in dispersing them for a while. Only chemical weapons seemed remotely effective on a large scale and the atmospheric conditions made it virtually impossible to deploy those on a useful scale. They just kept on coming, weaving through the trees with almost unnatural precision, their bodies flexing and contracting as easily as any Cybertronian's, allowing them to flit through the tightest of gaps. And the instant they got into a reasonably open space, they swarmed and became clouds of snapping jaws and flashing talons, all the while screeching and screaming until the din filled the forest, echoing and rebounding over and over again.

"Look out!"

Megatron was already in motion by the time the cry reached his audios, ducking below the plummeting bat's outstretched claws. He lashed out with a balled fist, catching the animal a devastating blow to the spine. Ion bolts whizzed over his head, neatly bisecting a second bat as it tried to take advantage of his momentary distraction.

"This is hopeless!" Optrion yelled, dropping into the gulley to join his commander.

"I'll welcome your suggestions," Megatron grated back, repaying the squad leader by blowing yet another bat into charred meat nano-cycles before it could take a bite out of Optrion's arm.

"We can't just keep blasting away at them," the red and blue mech shouted, continuing to blast away, "There's too many of them this time!"

"Are you just going to repeat the painfully obvious for dramatic effect?" came the acerbic reply, bellowed over the howling of the swarm and the shriek of weapons fire.

"My point is, sir, that we need to split them up somehow – stop them attacking us all at once." Optrion swivelled abruptly, taking out a particularly large and vicious-looking beast that had been dive-bombing a lanky green warrior fighting to haul an insensate tank out of the swamp.

"An excellent idea – but since we're completely surrounded and up to our knees in a _slagging swamp_, how were you suggesting we draw them off? Hope they'll follow us into the ground?" Megatron punctuated this sarcastic question by half-transforming – far enough for his rail gun to come together – and launching two proximity missiles. The resulting explosions blew gaping holes in the bats' ranks, which promptly closed up again, the maddened fury of the monsters unabated. "Of course, if there were any solid ground in this wretched place," he grumbled, retaking biped form, "I could change properly and even the odds."

"I was thinking sir," Optrion put in with remarkable composure, "These things home in on our energy signatures, yes?"

"Yes! Something useful before I rust, Iaconian!"

"The charge in our armour," he continued quickly, "That's a big part of our detectable signatures – perhaps if we drained it or…inverted its polarity, it would…distort our signatures enough to put the bats off – or at least confuse them long enough for us to get the upper hand."

Megatron threw him a brief, incredulous look. "That has to be the most ludicrous idea I've ever heard!

A bat flashed past, its talons slicing a broad gash along his back. Optrion's hand shot out, closing tight around the thing's barbed tail. With one mighty heave, he flung it against the nearest tree. "You didn't say they had to be _good_ suggestions, sir."

Grunting, Megatron straightened, his self-repair systems already working to seal off the damaged sections. A moment later, he triggered his com-link. "All units: initiate a polarity reversal within your charged armour on my mark. Mark!"

The swamp lit up with the glare of momentary electrical discharges. Megatron's frame sparked for an instant, a strange disorientating sensation flooding his body. Optrion actually flinched, clearly unprepared for the physical effect of the inversion.

The bats reacted instantly. The swarm lifted out of the gulley, a visible jerk of surprise running through the cloud of wings and fangs. Then, all at once, it broke apart, great swathes peeling away and disappearing back into the canopy. Freed from the constant attacks, the Cybertronian warriors were suddenly able to aim with considerably more accuracy and hundreds of the startled creatures were cut down as they raced for the safety of their nests. Staring up as the last of them vanished behind a maze of foliage, Megatron let out a long, low hiss of static. He looked down to see Optrion, water dripping from his every part, wearing the expression of one extremely surprised his plan had actually worked.

"That settles it," Megatron growled, shaking his head in a futile effort to dislodge his own coating of slime, "First chance I get, you're being promoted.

* * *

><p><em>Transformers and all associated characters and ideas belong to Hasbro and are used here purely for entertainment purposes.<em>


	10. Life Goes On

**2.1: Life Goes On**

**Tava Szenda Birthing Well**

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

Diatrion was beginning to feel just the tinniest bit redundant.

In theory he and the rest of the white and blue liveried Civic Guardsmechs were there to provide security for the Prime's visit to the Tava Szenda Well. Maintaining inter-state security was, after all, the sole function of the Civic Guard and this was very much an inter-state event.

But of course the Prime was flanked at all times by a cadre of gold-armoured ceremonial bodyguards, and shadowed at all times by several dull grey _full-time_ bodyguards, so his security was already doubly ensured. And the Well itself was under the protection of highly trained members of the Order of the Dai, each one a master of Metalikato, Circuit Su and a dozen other arcane martial arts, so anyone trying to do harm to the vast pool of protomatter would be sliced into spare parts before they got anywhere near it. And each of the surrounding city states had dispatched members of their own police forces – invariably those built along lines that discouraged boisterous conversation, let alone aggravated assault – to handle security for their individual delegations, so no one really had to worry about the presiding officials' safety. And by long tradition, all those who wished to witness the miracle of creation were kept at a respectful distance by the Circuit Masters who tended the Well, whose sole purpose was to preserve the purity of the raw stuff of life that heaved and swelled within.

In fact, when you got right down to it, the only reason the Civic Guard was there at all was to make sure that the event didn't dissolve into a four way argument over who held jurisdiction.

This time, no one showed the least inclination to argue over anything. Even the Vosian and Tarnian delegations seemed content merely to glare at each other from opposing ends of the grand observation deck. For not unrelated reasons, the phrase 'stultifyingly boring' kept reoccurring in Diatrion's thoughts.

At least the surroundings were pleasant. Indeed, they were spectacular. The Well sat in the natural pit formed by the confluence of three of the great chasms that ran between Cybertron's thousands of continental plates. Huge pipes and armatures grew from the encircling cliffs, the ever-shifting bones of a vast machine, interlocking and pulling apart in time to some ineffable beat. The Well itself was a roughly circular bowl sunk deep into the subsurface, the rough, raw ground giving way gradually to silvery almost-liquid. Strange currents tugged the pool this way and that, shapes forming one instant to be swept away the next. Sometimes smooth cables would thread their way under the surface, moving like lightning. Sometimes weird shapes would emerge, criss-crossing patterns of metal shards or hexagonal blocks intersected with one another. Sometimes the whole mass would begin to coalesce on a single point, a lone bubble that would surge lethargically upwards only to collapse back down, lacking the energy to break free. The motion of the Well was mesmerising, chaotic but full of tantalising hints of an underlying order that, if one just stared long enough, might allow a glimpse of something greater than the physical world…

Diatrion snapped back to attention, fixing his optics on a point well away from the Well, high in the observation deck where the Tagan dignitaries were taking their place among the throng. He was supposed to be watching for trouble – however unlikely it was to happen – not trying to commune with the Allspark. He had to be focused, ready for anything.

"Something wrong?" asked one of the two guardsmechs manning the observation post with him.

"No," he replied, a little too quickly.

The other guardsmech, the eldest and most experienced of the trio by quite a way, chuckled. "He's just bored. Like the rest of us."

Shaking his head ruefully, realising there was little point protesting the assessment, Diatrion said mildly, "Just trying to stay focused."

Clutch – a nickname earned long ago – simply chortled again and thumped Diatrion on the shoulder with one oversized hand. "Don't worry. Shouldn't be more than a deca-cycle or so before they start getting on with it properly. And the ceremony itself shouldn't last till past midday."

Mesinat, the third guardsmech, let out a long, low groan. With considerable effort, Diatrion clamped down on the urge to do the same.

It was going to be a very long day.

* * *

><p><strong>The East Merchant District<strong>

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

It had been a very long day.

Aratron lifted the beaker of oil and poured it into his chest inlet port with a satisfied hum. The highly refined fuel hit his systems in a rush of energy, jolting him out of his lethargy. His optics brightened considerably and he sat up straighter, a spasm in his fingers nearly causing him to lose his grip on the beaker.

"You looked like you needed that," Calitae told him from behind the bar, leaning her elbow on the burnished surface, "Racetrack working you too hard again?"

"New stock," he told her with a grimace, "Had me running raw sheets up from the docks all day."

"You? What is he, too tight to hire a proper hauler?"

"Can't afford it."

The thickset orange feme nodded sagely. "Tough times."

Taking in another draught of fuel, Aratron glanced around the room. The dingy oil-house was largely empty, a few regular patrons filling out a couple of tables, nothing more. The thunder of traffic filtered down from the expressway above as a distant roar, the occasional heavy transport setting the wall hangings rattling. A visualizer cube projected a news feed into the air, images and data-streams from the Prime's visit to one of the Qosho Region's Birthing Wells. No one was paying much attention to it.

"You seen Gauun lately?" Calitae asked, picking up a beaker and a buffing pad.

Aratron frowned. "Not for a few days."

"Wow." The barkeeper began polishing. "You two fallen out again?"

"Not since last stellar cycle."

"That the time he got you chucked over a cliff?"

"Yup."

"How long didn't you speak to each other that time?"

"Day and a half."

"Wow," Calitae repeated, putting down the now-shining beaker and reaching for another. The treads slung across her back shifted a little. "So a few days means, what, he's got himself run down by a train?"

"Dunno." Sloshing the last of his fuel around in its container, Aratron looked across at the visualizer, aware of a surge in the information it was throwing out. The Prime had just entered the concourse leading down to the Well. Echoing the crowds in the images, a murmur of "hail the Flame, hail the Prime" ran around the oil-house, some of the mechs even lifting their beakers in salute.

"He's probably just caught up doing 'art' or whatever," Aratron said when the moment had passed.

"Doing art _and_ whatever, I'll have you know!" cried a voice from the door.

Gauun burst in like a small silver and black rocket, charging over to the bar gesticulating wildly and talking nonstop. "Honestly, I take a couple of days out of my busy social schedule to seal the greatest deal – so far – of my professional career and everyone assumes I must have dropped off the face of the planet. What is it with you people? Can't face the thought of life without me? A fresh can of oil for my friend, Calitae, and one for me and one for yourself! Best quality you've got! I'm in the mood for getting completely blasted!"

Calitae and Aratron exchanged incredulous looks. "His processor's finally gone and fried itself," the mech muttered eventually.

"Just as long as he can pay for it," the feme said with a shrug, and reached for a drum of high-grade.

"Fweee!" Gauun whacked Aratron on the door-wing. "Thanks a lot for all that faith you have in me. Really makes my day. Lucky for me that _I_ have faith in me, otherwise I'd be the complete loser you seem to think I am – despite all the evidence, I might add."

"What evidence is this?" Calitae asked, placing freshly filled beakers on the bar, "I've always thought you were a loser too."

Snatching up one of the cans, Gauun threw back his head and chugged down half his fuel in one go, pouring it straight into his mouth. Slamming the container back down again, he grinned broadly and regally extended a hand. An image appeared above it, a burly black mech with bronze trim covered head to foot in garish cyan patterns. The hologram revolved slowly, revealing that the lurid designs wound their way across every part of the mech's body.

"You are looking at this season's decals for the West Sector Athletics Team," Gauun explained, before snapping his hand closed and dismissing the image, "And now you're looking at the mech who's been paid a whole heap of shannix for designing them." Looking infuriatingly pleased with himself, he hopped onto one of the bar-perches, the seat reforming to accommodate him.

"They paid you for those?" Aratron deadpanned.

"We can't afford to turn the lights up full and that bunch of wannabe gladiators can splash out on your scrawls?" Calitae shook her head disbelievingly. "There's no justice in the universe."

"Oh no, no!" Their newly wealthy friend spread his hands. "Please, hold back on the gushing praise and enthusiastic congratulations! I've only finally made the big break I've been working towards for _stellar cycles_."

Unable to help himself, Aratron laughed. "This is all because you met that quad at the party at Garadus', isn't it? The one who was 'in sports', right?"

"What can I say? He liked my 'low-grade decals' – thought they added a touch of the streets to the team, help the people relate to them big, tough, fancy-formed athletes of his."

"Besides which, you're cheaper than most of the pro-artists, huh?"

"Still got enough out of it to pay you for fuel all night," Gauun told Calitae with a smirk, "Keep 'em coming! I owe my best friend here for not being there to make sure he gets himself higher 'n the Celestial Temple for the past quartex."

He whacked Aratron's door-wing again, affectionately this time, and flapped his own encouragingly. Aratron lifted his beaker in half-mocking salute and drained it into his mouth in one go.

* * *

><p><strong>Tava Szenda Birthing Well<strong>

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

Sarristec would have given anything for a crystal goblet of the highest-grade fuel. Preferably with something borderline illegal dissolved in it to give it that little extra kick.

Being included in the delegation sent to oversee the Reaffirmation of the Tava Szenda Well was of course a great honour, although really his presence at the head of a group of sector representatives and wealthy business people was only natural. Most of the Lords of the Conclave did not fit with the image of a newly resurgent city grasping the future with both hands. He, by contrast, was well on his way to becoming the face of a progressive Vos, both at home and around the world. The reforms he had formulated had made him a popular symbol of a new, better order – which, coupled with his looks, had in turn made him the darling of the media networks.

The problem was that most of the Reaffirmation was taken up by long, interminable blessings delivered by a High Circuit Master whose voice resembled the high, shut-down inducing drone of a ventilation system. It rambled on and on and on about the mystery and magnificence of Cybertron, the glory of the Allspark and the wondrous gift of new life, until Sarristec was ready to cave its domed head in with its own staff of office. He did not even have the satisfaction of being able to complain about the proceedings. Along with everyone else on the observation deck, he had to maintain the image of his state and look like he was actually _interested_ in what was going on. A finer display of false sincerity and feigned attention it would have been harder to find. Even the Civic Guards, their bland white forms easily identifiable on the fringes of the gathering, managed to keep up an air of respectful attentiveness and they must surely have been the most bored of them all, their presence being as superfluous as it was.

A stir went through the assembled dignitaries as the High Circuit Master finally slowed to a stop and, with much genuflection, beckoned the Prime forward. Sentinel strode to the Well's edge, the midday sunlight glancing blindingly off his golden armour, and lifted a hand to the sky. "Brothers," he boomed, his voice filling the great pit, "We are gathered today to witness the giving of the gift of life, to share in the miracle of creation and to welcome a new generation into this world. I stand here before you so that our forms may be shared by those who are to come, so that they too may enjoy the strength and the will that have made Cybertron great."

As he spoke, the protomatter began to surge about energetically, more and more half-formed shapes bubbling to the surface. He stepped forward, his feet disappearing into the silvery mass. "It is the will of the Allspark," he intoned, optics blazing, "that the past shall embrace the future and that all shall share in the light of creation."

White fire criss-crossed his body for a moment, a flare of information that swept outwards to flood the entire Well. Sarristec leaned forward, engrossed in the spectacle despite himself. The raw power released as the Matrix imprinted on the protomatter flashed and crackled across the pool, surging and flaring like a living thing. Words and images spilled from the maelstrom, instants of lucidity scattered into the ether by a mad whirling rush of data – glimpses into the mind of the Allspark.

Then the wave of light had passed and the Prime had stepped back onto the shore. His great frame sagged imperceptibly with the effort of imparting the commands that kept the protomatter within the narrow parameters that defined recognisable sentience. The High Circuit Master gestured with its staff and two acolytes hurried forward, their bodies still armoured, not yet the stripped, gilded skeletons of true Masters. Between them they carried a heavily reinforced container, the large black cylinder held within an intricate bronze lattice. At the Circuit Master's touch, this slid aside, unfurling and rearranging itself to allow the box to open. From it, the ancient mechanoid took a hand-sized, almost disappointingly plain grey sphere. This it lifted, first towards the Prime, then towards the watching audience.

"The Template of the Mech Tron," it announced grandly, and plunged the sphere into the Well.

The protomatter became positively frenzied. Bubble after enormous bubble erupted, the great domes shivering in the sunlight for a split micro-cycle before beginning to deform, blank surfaces gradually giving way to more complex shapes. The transmutation accelerated as it went on, servos and gears, beams and pistons, hands and feet, all the parts of a working body flowing into existence, the template mapped on to reality. The heads were the last to form, momentarily blank then steadily filled out with the broad strokes of the final product, a mouth, optics, a central sensor node, the finer detail following almost immediately.

Hesitantly, uncertainly, following the ancient coding that had driven the Cybertronian race up to the surface of their world, fifty four protoforms made their way up on to the Well's gently sloping shore, drawn instinctively to the where the Prime waited. He saluted them, one forearm held horizontal across his chest-plate. Rapidly becoming accustomed to their shape and their minds, they copied the gesture, some more readily than others. "My brothers," Sentinel called, voice carrying once more through the great pit, "Feel the sunlight on your skin. Feel the glory of the Matrix in your circuits. Feel your Sparks filling your bodies. And know that you are alive."

Circuit Masters, golden reflections of the naked silver beings who had risen from the pool, gently shepherded them into three lines, communicating with the new-borns in the most basic and ancient of the Cybertronian languages. The Prime spoke to them again, his grand words guiding them towards the higher and more complex methods of communication. "You will go forth from here, as did all those who came before you, to take your place in our world. As they did, you will begin your lives performing the humble, vital functions that preserve us all. As they did, you will rise in time, fulfilling the potential that lies within you. From this moment on, it is your duty to follow in their footsteps, to strive to be everything that you can be, to better yourself, to better your brothers, to better Cybertron. Let it be so, in the name Allspark, in the name of the greater whole in which we are all united, now and forever, until all are one!"

"Till all are one!" roared the crowds obediently. "Till all are one!" echoed the protoforms, caught up in the atmosphere.

"Till all are one," repeated Sarristec sarcastically, more or less to himself. He looked down at the mechs who had just clawed their way out of Cybertron's skin and wondered how many of them would ever rise from the 'humble, vital functions' of the menial classes. No more than a handful, if that. Since before Sarristec had come online, template and Well had dictated what you were or were not likely to achieve. They decided the forms you could take when you were formatted, the line of work your body fitted you for, the respect you got from society, your ultimate place in the world. And fundamentally, the Mech Tron line was cast in the menial mould, whether it emerged from Tava Szenda or Verous Klyda, whether it was formatted as a bulk in Tagan or a flyer in Vos.

The Prime had not lied when he said that each of the protoforms would rise in time to fulfil their potential. Society had simply decided long ago that that potential was very small.

And as he turned to converse with the wealthy, powerful mechs around him, Sarristec smiled with reaffirmed confidence that the Mech Tec line had very great potential indeed.

* * *

><p><em>Transformers and all associated characters and ideas belong to Hasbro and are used here purely for entertainment purposes.<em>


	11. Homecoming

**2.2: Homecoming**

**Military Spaceport**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

Optrion savoured the feel of Cybertron's surface, cool and welcoming beneath his wheels. It was good to be back.

The massive space cruisers that dominated the landing field spilled vehicles of every size and shape out across the spaceport, a flood of colour flowing from their gaping bellies. Hoots and hollers rang out as the returning mechs jostled and shouted at each other, the ground-side officials fighting a constant battle to keep the exuberant warriors under control and ensure that the equipment tenders they were hauling were delivered to the right places. Above, flyers hauled heavier loads out through the cruisers' upper doors, or flitted under their great wedge-shaped hulls to attach refuelling lines and begin maintenance.

There was a palpable sense of relief in the air. Even if the returning soldiers could not claim the battles won on Anska and Dormedon as resounding triumphs, they had at least survived to see their homeworld again. The dozen solemn processions of oval pods spoke all too eloquently of how many had not done so.

Driving into one the loading bays, Optrion unhitched his trailer, allowing it to be seized by automated loaders and hoisted up into the cavernous maw of the main warehouse. Freed from his burden, he accelerated out across the last stretch of landing field and joined the steady stream of traffic heading along the expressway to the nearest garrison.

"Slag me but it's good ta feel a road under ma wheels ag'in!" Ironhide hollered, racing up from behind, the rest of Optrion's squad close on his tail.

"I'll second that," shouted Trailbreaker, closing up on the left flank, "Almost forgotten what it's like to drive without my chassis filling up with mud!"

"And the air!" yelled Overhaul, his boxy maroon form swaying with the speed, "It's clean!"

"All right, mechs, don't get over excited," Optrion cautioned, slowing slightly to force the others to do the same, "We're not on leave yet."

Suitably chastened, they formed up into a more organised convoy just as the roadway abruptly dropped away in front of them, a whole section hinging downwards to transfer them into the labyrinthine garrison complex below.

* * *

><p><strong>Planetary Defence Directorate Garrison Optir Prima<strong>

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

They had been assigned a long, arched chamber on the fifth level, a bare room lined with rest bays and not much else. Lockers unfolded from the floor as they transformed, each adapting to a particular warrior's requirements at a touch.

"Ok, yah lazy slaggers, get yer kit cleaned an' stowed!" Ironhide boomed, already pulling weapons out of internal storage, "No one gets outta here 'afore me an' the boss mech see that yah all 've put away those big dangerous guns ah yers! Dun wanta hafta have th' White 'n Blues callin' me away from mah high-grade cos one 'a yuh glitches has put a hole in some home-town empty fer jostlin' yer in the street!"

"Yes sir! No sir!" the squad chorused, exchanging grins while they obediently off-loaded their various arsenals into the waiting receptacles.

Optrion smiled to himself, nodded to a smirking Ironhide and entered the partitioned vestibule that served as officers' quarters. He held his ion rifle up to the light for a moment, admiring the gouges and scratches along the barrel. Repeated and sustained scrubbing had removed most of the evidence that it had been dropped in a swamp but the shrikebat bite was a permanent memento, one that would probably dramatically shorten the gun's lifetime. Given how many of the bats lifetimes he had shortened, he supposed that was hardly an unfair trade.

He allowed the locker to gulp down the rifle and the rest of his armaments and returned to the main room, where Ironhide had the squad standing at attention, as neat and pristine as their equipment. Once he had completed his inspection and the lockers were sealed back into the floor, Optrion seized the moment and addressed his troops.

"Before you rush out of here to go and enjoy yourselves at the expense of the local populace's peace and quiet, I have something to say." He paused a moment, looking from mech to mech. "It has been an honour serving with you all. Every one of you has proven your valour and honour on the field of combat. You have made me proud. You have made Cybertron proud. And, most importantly, you have done justice to those who fell at our side, those who we could not bring home. For them, in their name, I thank you."

"As do I." All optics turned to the door and fifteen arms shot across fifteen chests. Megatron, still armed and as towering as ever, responded with a salute of his own. "Your leader does _you_ proud," he told the assembled warriors, "As much for his modesty as for the accuracy of his praise. You are heroes, every one of you, there is no doubt about that. And no doubt every one of you will agree that he is too." A cheer of agreement went up at that. Megatron smiled. "Exactly. But since he refuses to seek out the reward of that heroism, it is left to the rest of us to force them upon him. Op Mech Trion Novus Zar!" he barked with sudden sharpness, "Step forward!"

A thrill of nervousness shot through Optrion's systems as he obeyed, mingled with more than a little pride at his superior's compliments. Megatron reached out and laid a hand across the insignia displayed on the squad leader's shoulder. "By the authority of the Planetary Defence Directorate, I am required and commanded to confer on you the rank and responsibilities of Lieutenant Commander, with immediate effect." A burst of data from his palm forced the insignia into a new shape, replacing the square on its end with two triangles either side of a vertical bar. The ident-signal shifted too, the security clearances automatically updating.

Another, louder clear went up. Megatron stepped back and he and Optrion saluted each other.

"Thank you sir," Optrion began, "This is an honour –"

"I said I'd get you promoted," the silver tank interrupted firmly, "And I always carry through on my threats. Besides, don't you think you deserve the rank?"

"Everyone else in the room seems to, sir." Indeed, Ironhide was wearing an almost impossibly smug I-told-you-so expression.

"That would be because you _earned_ it," Megatron explained patiently, as one might to a slightly addled protoform, "And not for being humble."

"No sir. I earned if for sticking my arms down tank barrels."

Megatron laughed, encouraging the others to do the same. "Hah! Yes, that is _exactly_ what I need: subordinates who get blown to bits on a regular basis. Well, that concludes the pleasant part of my day. Now I have to go lead a parade. But I'm sure I can leave you mechs to take care of congratulating your newly elevated commanding officer."

To a loud refrain of "Yes sir!" he took his leave of them. Optrion turned to Ironhide.

"Told yah," the older soldier said with a grin.

"You did. You also promised you'd pay for a round of high-grade."

"Ah did. An whut are you buncha scrapheaps lookin' aht?"

"I think they've just decided not to let you out of their sight for the rest of the night," Optrion told him, clapping him companionably on the shoulder, "All right mechs," he bellowed, "form up and roll out! We've got some leave to begin!"

* * *

><p><strong>The Celestial Temple<strong>

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

"Xaaron?"

The Emirate for Nova Cronum ignored the sound of his name and continued staring out across the golden spires arrayed before him. In the distance, crowds were gathered around one of the great gates that gave access to the wider world, flocks of avirs circling over them in order to catch every last instant for the newsfeeds. The single expressway running from the gate to the Celestial Temple was lined with hundreds of banners and even from so far away, the regal forms of the honour guards were clearly visible against the grey road.

Soft footsteps approached as Traachon joined him on the balcony. "Is something wrong?" the Emirate for Iacon asked quietly.

"Is it wrong to want to watch the festivities?" The question was tinged with wry humour.

"You never struck me as someone who enjoyed 'festivities'." Traachon was undeterred. "Certainly you always seem to make a point of avoiding them whenever possible."

The gate was open now, the impenetrable walls of Iacon breached to admit the Prime. He rolled in, a huge, many wheeled vehicle moving with regal leisure, his sweeping lines as distinctive as the utilitarian silver tank trundling along beside him. They were of a size, Sentinel and Megatron, though otherwise they could hardly have been more dissimilar. The warrior's squared-off bulk, host to a wealth of cannons, was dramatically at odds with the Prime's streamlined, peace-time form.

"I wanted to admire Sentinel's…timing," Xaaron said at last, clasping his hands behind his back.

Traachon frowned. "His timing?"

"Yes."

"I'm not sure I follow you."

"No?" Xaaron smiled and gestured expansively at the approaching procession. "There is Sentinel, back from the morally dubious act of reaffirming Tava Szenda and he times his arrival to coincide precisely with Megatron's triumphant return from the colonies. They enter Iacon together and share in the glorious image of victory. A rather neat arrangement, don't you think?"

"What do you mean, morally dubious act?" Traachon demanded, legally trained mind homing in on the phrase, "How can you call the Prime's duty a –"

Xaaron cut him off before he could finish the admonishment. "Every city-state is suffering from chronic overcrowding. We've exhausted the moons' natural resources and we daren't tap Cybertron's any further because we simply don't understand our world's interior well enough to be certain we won't irrevocably damage it. We are increasingly reliant on mining colonies outside our solar system – each of which, I might add, is controlled by one or other of the larger cities, making them even _more_ powerful and likely to quarrel – and the further we have to go to find planets whose resources can be refined into useable fuel, the more energy we have to expend bringing those resources back here to refine them. As a member of the High Council, as an _Emirate_ you are – I hope – painfully aware of all this. And you still have to ask me why I call ensuring that the Birthing Wells can continue to churn out viable protoforms is morally dubious act?"

"It is our moral duty to give the gift of life!" Clearly Traachon was astonished by the suggestion that it could be otherwise. "To give the gift of form to those who are yet to come! That is the founding principle of our civilisation! And whatever problems we face, that is the creed the High Council was formed to uphold! Would you have the Wells left to churn out mindless animals and shapeless abominations, denied the light of the Matrix and the glory of true _sentience_?"

"Turbo foxes consume less energy than the average Tron-line labourer," Xaaron retorted flippantly, "And no – I would rather that we found a way to limit the Wells' output completely, for the moment at least. Oh come now, Traachon," he added, glancing over his shoulder at his fellow Emirate's scandalised expression, "Even some Circuit Masters have been known to express that view."

"And have been called heretics because of it! Xaaron…I say this as a friend…but that is a _dangerous_ view, one someone in our position cannot afford to express lightly…"

Xaaron was touched by the genuine concern in the other mech's voice, if more than a little amused by it. "Perhaps in Iacon. But even here, I think you would find many who would readily exchange faith in the Allspark's divine plan for a tank full of fuel and the promise of more tomorrow."

The procession had reached the halfway mark, where the monolithic Decagon cast its shadow across the roadway. He admired again the pleasing contrivance of the truck and the tank sharing the adoration of the masses, the twin faces of Cybertron's heritage being cheered for giving the people a glimpse of victory, real or imaginary.

At his shoulder, Traachon made several small noises, as though he were trying to speak but words kept failing him. Finally, he managed, "And what of your faith, Xaaron? Do _you_ trust in the Allpsark?"

"I'm a politician, my friend," the golden mech replied without turning, "My faith is negotiable."

* * *

><p><strong>Dead End<strong>

**Tagan**

**Cybertron**

"Well, he's gone," Glitter announced. The white quad rose and slunk away from the body, retracting his sensor arrays. "Mustn't have seen it coming – didn't have time to transfer enough code away from the damaged parts of his body, didn't consolidate fast enough – and then there wasn't enough left of him to think with."

Diatrion exchanged a pointed look with Talainat and bent to retrieve a fragment of blue armour. "Can you confirm why this still has colour?"

"Lacquered. Looks almost genuine, doesn't it." The medic patted another piece. "I'd say he had a touch of chromo-deficiency. Either that or he was just showing off. 'Look at me, I can afford to have _real_ cyrianate plating, not just change my skin to mimic it.'"

"Can you tell where the lacquer might have been administered?" Diatrion asked.

"How should I know?" Glitter shook his head irritably. "Damnit, I'm a doctor, not a fashion expert."

"Can you at least give us a full-spectrum scan of it?" Talainat asked, pointing a sensor probe of his own at the blue metal scattered about. Information began to spool across the windscreen that forming his chest-plate.

"Of course I can," the medic huffed, "Want me to do it here or back at base?"

"Here. We need to get him identified fast."

True enough, Diatrion agreed silently, contemplating the sorry sight before them. The mech – Glitter's examination had confirmed it _was_ a mech, not a feme or a cyol, though it was impossible to tell at a glance – lay sprawled in the middle of the street, what remained of his arms and legs stretched out in an almost comical fashion. Fragments of his fancy armour were spread all around him, their bright colours a sharp contrast to the dullness into which the rest of him had faded. All distinguishing marks had been bludgeoned from the body and with the fragmentation of his core programing, only a few general facts were immediately obvious.

He had been rich – the lacquered armour spoke volumes about that. He had been a grounder – he was too small to be a flyer – and probably something sporty, given the comparative low mass of what was left of him. And he had definitely not been one of the empties who usually inhabited Dead Ends. Whoever he had been, he had been a long way from home when he died.

"Why would someone wealthy enough to afford fancy mods come down here?" Talainat wondered aloud, by chance echoing Diatrion's line of thought.

"Perhaps to find more mods," the larger mech suggested, waving at the ugly, forbidding buildings, "Good place to meet a supplier, if you weren't planning on asking too many questions."

Except that didn't ring true at all. Despite what politicians claimed when they went on their little 'clean up the city' tirades, Dead Ends were generally not where most of the illegal modding happened. Dealers had their images to maintain and dead habitation districts were not likely to put customers at their ease. Sure, they usually operated out of pretty run-down and crime-infested areas but actual Dead Ends? Not likely. Practically unheard of, in fact.

"For some sort of deal, anyway," he amended, "One that needed to be done away from prying optics."

"In the middle of the street?" Talainat sounded as convinced as Diatrion felt.

"A bet of some kind, maybe? Came here to prove how tough he was…"

"And a gang of empties got the drop on him? Could be…there're enough signs of a struggle to fit with that…and if I were an empty and I saw some high-grade racer decked out in all his gear, I think I'd want to rip his arms off too."

"Except…" Diatrion swung around slowly, following the pattern of foot-marks and tyre-tracks. "No, that doesn't fit." He jerked a thumb at the corpse. "That damage isn't the work of a mob – or if it is, it's the best trained mob I've ever seen. Blunt trauma, sure, but taking out _all_ the distinguishing marks?"

"Not likely," Talainat admitted, "Especially when –"

"Your scans," Glitter interrupted brusquely, beaming the files to the two of them, "The lacquer is uninteresting, well formulated but nothing special. Not local, trace elements suggest it was mixed up somewhere between Praxus and Polyhex."

"I thought you said you weren't a fashion expert," commented Talainat.

"Yeah, but I'm an excellent forensics officer. The body's base materials suggest it was formatted in that region too, by the way – and the proto-structure almost certainly came from one of the Praxian Wells. Not Verous Klyda though. Zinc content is too low."

Diatrion gave an annoyed hum. "Well, at least that cuts out most of Praxus' population. But it doesn't exactly tell us what in the Pit a Praxian is doing lying dead here. Are you going to be able to narrow him down any further?"

"Not here. Give me a deca-cycle in the lab and I _might_ be able to give you more. No promises."

"Right." Diatrion signalled the constables scanning the immediate area. "Let's call in a flyer and get the body moved back to base. I want every last piece collected and sealed for transport. We need to know who this mech was before we can work out why he was killed, so let's make sure we don't leave any important bits of him behind."

He looked back down at the corpse and scowled. A mech killed half a world away from where he had come online, for no readily apparent reason, in the middle of a Dead End. The first case back on the beat just couldn't be an easy one, could it?

* * *

><p><em>Transformers and all associated characters and ideas belong to Hasbro and are used here purely for entertainment purposes.<em>


	12. Media Relations

**2.3: Media Relations**

**The Grand Slam Report**

**Global Newsfeed**

**Cybertron**

"_Tonight, as we explore the causes of the increasing tension in the Qosho Region, we welcome Lord Sarristec of Vos to the 'feed."_

"And please let me say that it is a pleasure and a privilege to be here again, Grand Slam."

"_Hhm. Then let's begin with the question everyone's asking: is Vos moving towards pulling out of the Inter-State Accords and breaking away from the High Council completely?"_

"You have a gift for cutting to the core of the matter. At this time, I can state categorically that it is neither Vos' wish nor intention to break with the unity that has been the mark of our planet's society for so long. At the same time, of course, we will continue to assert out individuality within that unity. Every city-state has the right to self-determination, to set its own long-term goals and to perfect its economic and social models. We are merely exercising that right – and since it is a right granted by the High Council in the first place, the accusations that we are deliberately opposing the Council seem to me somewhat absurd."

"_Surely it is also a requirement of unity under the High Council that every city contributes to supporting the Civic Guard and the Defence Directorate?"_

"As we have stated many times, we are not in any way shirking out responsibilities towards planetary security. I'm sure everyone's getting quite bored of hearing us answer this particular question. Yes, we have reduced the energy allocated to Council _administrative_ facilities within Vos' borders but _only_ to the administrative facilities. The Civic Guard base, the Defence Directorate communications relay – these remain fully operational."

"_Indeed. But one of the administrative facilities that has suffered from an energy reduction – some might say a _crippling_ energy reduction – is the Fuel Distribution Monitoring Office. In light of the fact that Vos is one of the largest suppliers of fuel to not only Qosho but to the Lakatera region as well, is this not a self-serving move intended to prevent greater scrutiny of your city's dealings with less powerful states?"_

"Vos has nothing to be ashamed of with regard to our dealings with other cities. We consider it our duty to share the bounty of our mining operations with those states unable to conduct such operations themselves. And by and large, I think you will find that they will have nothing but good things to say about our conduct in this most vital of undertakings."

"_Certainly. I'm sure they don't want to risk upsetting you. Tell me, Lord Sarristec, how do you respond to the accusations that Vos has been hording the cleanest fuel for itself and has been exporting largely only lower-quality product?"_

"I'm sorry, was that supposed to be a shocking revelation? It is no secret that we reserve the highest quality fuel for our own citizens. Vos may strongly believe in sharing energy but fuel distribution is still an economic arrangement and we still owe a duty of care first and foremost to our own population. We are certainly not peddling low-grade fuel for exorbitant prices – indeed, we offer extremely reasonable rates on low-grade to the industrial centres it which it can be put to good use – but at the same time, we are not about to put profit above the needs of our people. They place their trust in us and we do everything in our power to support and maintain them."

"_And to maintain a healthy military force?"_

"You said yourself that we are one of the largest fuel suppliers on Cybertron. We must be prepared to protect our infrastructure, for the sake of all those who rely on us, both within and without our borders."

"_Which is why you have been systematically upgrading the security of your pipelines and pumping stations?"_

"Of course. I hardly need to remind the viewers of this feed that unrest is spreading throughout the more impoverished provinces. Unlike less enlightened states, we are not responding to this by curtailing civil liberties or closing our borders but by working positively to strengthen our society and improve life for the less well off. That said, we are not blind to the threat posed by those misguided individuals who believe they can force change on others through violence. We will take whatever steps are necessary to protect our investments and to ensure that we do not let down those who are relying on us."

"_So these security upgrades have nothing to do with the similar programme being undertaken by the Tarnian government?"_

"I'm sure that Tarn is simply responding to the same pressures that we are. It is only logical to protect operations that are vital to Cybertron as a whole. Tarn is perhaps not as culturally sophisticated as other cities, but it is certainly run on very logical lines."

"_So, you can confirm that the Vosian upgrades are not influenced by Tarn's upgrades?"_

"I believe I have already explained our reasoning. I think perhaps we would be at risk of insulting your audience if we were to go over them again."

"…_Lord Sarristec of Vos, thank you for your time."_

"My pleasure as always."

"_Now, earlier today I was able to talk to one of the leaders of the militant group Fuel For All, an organisation that claims that the larger city-states are using their control of planetary resources to keep a privileged elite in power…"_

* * *

><p><strong>Gauun's Studio<strong>

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

The room did not look like a high-flying artist's studio. Not surprising given that until recently it had been the home of a lazy, easily distracted no-hoper. Aratron looked around in the vain hope of finding some clean, clear space. There wasn't the tiniest bit of floor that wasn't covered in decal fabrication units, data columns, old oil cans or weird junk that could have been anything from medical equipment to abstract sculpture. Technically, it was supposed to be a resource-saving combination of workplace and living quarters but it was hard to imagine it as either.

The 'artist' himself was perched on top of a data column, optics fixed on the poor quality holograms being projected, fountain style, into the middle of the room. "Come on Wheels!" he urged, waving an arm encouragingly, "Stop standing around and come and watch! It'll be on in a cycle!"

"Great…" Taking very careful steps, Aratron crossed to join his friend.

"Aren't you even a bit excited?" Gauun asked, "Because I am! My work, out there on the feeds! It _is_ great! It's gonna be _brilliant_!"

"Good…yeah…"

With exaggerated effort, he tore his gaze from the feed and looked up at Aratron. "Gimme something here, will you? This is my big break – can't you be the least bit happy for me?"

"I _am_ happy for you."

"You don't sound it. I mean, that didn't sound sincere at all. In fact you sound really scrapped off…"

"I'm not." Aratron's wheels turned slightly. "But not everyone's having your luck right now…"

Gauun began to reply but a sudden shift in the central hologram snatched him back to the feed. "Hey, look! It's on!"

An elegant winged mech with a yellow face, his sleek frame decked out in a perfect balance of greys, purples and blues, stood in the glare of a dozen spotlights, posing just a little bit too long for the cameras. "So what's revving tonight?" he asked loudly, giving a little flourish with his hands. Images filled the air in front of him, people of all shapes and sizes decked out in the latest fashions. "For the trendy mech and feme seeking that up-to-the-cycle look – racing stripes are in! For the daring quad – check out this textured armour! For the dashing avir, get everyone staring up at you with these fractal wing decals! For the trac about town – it's a classic and it's still stunning – yes, chrome is back back back!"`

Suddenly the camera pitched, the host's head lurching into close-up as a klaxon went off in the background. "Fashion warning! Spots, sun patterns and side fins are out out out! Lose them now or lose your fashion cred! Even if you have to go in for a total reformat, get rid, get rid, get rid!" The image lurched back to a full body view, following him as he glided casually across the stage. "Now, I'm not one for one-on-one violence myself but it's hard to deny that the arenas have produced some of the most striking colours schemes out there. Have you _seen_ Clench? I mean, wow! Pink neon and gold on midnight blue with a green trim? Gorgeous! I'd watch that guy swing a battle axe any day of the quartex! And it looks like Praxus' West Sector Heavy Club want to look just as good while they're grinding gears in the ring!"

Aratron jerked and looked questioningly at Gauun. "'Heavy Club'?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

"You said 'athletics team'."

"Um…yeah…" The artist shifted awkwardly. "Well, it's a kind of athletics, isn't it?"

"If you call two mechs trying to pulverise each other, 'athletic'."

"They have to run around and transform a lot when they're fighting! That's gotta count as athletic! Now will you shut up? This is it!"

A large, big-wheeled mech appeared, his black armour covered in Gauun's swirling cyan patterns. He looked a bit stunned, as if someone had dragged him out into the spotlight having just hit him hard in the processor. The host fluttered around him wearing an exultant expression and talking non-stop. "It's got style!" he enthused, "It's got pizazz! It's a look you won't be able to tear your optics away from, even in the heat of battle!"

"They paid you to make them targets?"

"Whee-eels!" Gauun flapped an arm, frantically signally for quiet.

"And the best part," the host gushed, "is that this is from a complete unknown! Yes, yes, yes! This is utterly exclusive first look at the first showing from a hot shot young designer who's sure to be in high demand from now on!"

With much fanfare, Gauun's info-net profile flashed across the feed, a burst of contact details and current projects. Then it was gone and the host was in motion again, yammering on about the latest upgrades and where to buy them.

"Was that it?" Aratron was not impressed.

Gauun, on the other hand, was bouncing up and down with excitement. "This is brilliant! I'm out there! My designs on the fashion feeds! I've arrived! I'm in the air! I'm ready for the big time! I'm –"

"Publicly linked to something everyone from the Magnus down has been trying to get banned for _mega_-cycles –"

"_Trying_," Gauun emphasised quickly, "They're never going to actually going to go through with it, are they?"

Aratron gave up. It was clear nothing was going to puncture his friend's premature enthusiasm. Shoving the other mech gently aside, he tapped into the visualizer and switched feeds, searching for something more interesting than a million and one ways to make maintenance fun. Gauun protested but not much – he was already distracted, checking and rechecking his communications log for the flood of commissions that he obviously expected.

A newsfeed sprang up, an anchor feme talking over images of a stately blue mech at various high-grade social gatherings. The Civic Guard were appealing for witnesses to his last movements before he got himself murdered in a Dead End near Tagen. Apparently, he was a Praxian of some standing and it was a shocking sign of the times that he could have come to such an end. After watching for a moment, Aratron thumped his friend's arm.

Refocusing on the outside world, the artist frowned at the holograms. "What?"

Aratron pointed at the murder victim. "Isn't that the slagger who got us chucked over a cliff?"

* * *

><p><strong>The Palace of Law<strong>

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

Sarristec's reflection admired him from the polished chrome that decorated the antechamber. The new navy blue detailing suited him perfectly, offsetting his otherwise maroon or white armour in a most pleasing fashion. Not too ostentatious, not too subtle, just enough to effortlessly draw the optic. The expense of external installation had been more than worth it. It really did make for a vastly superior finish.

A soft chime rang through the room, swiftly followed by the whisper of metal on metal as the far wall fractured and retracted, panels slipping aside to create a doorway. Pausing only long enough for the Palace's security system to confirm once more that he had full Conclave authority, Sarristec strode through into Lord Taynset's private chambers.

The room was a study in restrained opulence. Not for Taynset the showy grandeur favoured by so much of Cybertron's political elite: the décor was sleek and streamlined, showcasing the same sweeping elegance for which Vos as a whole was justly famed. Silver and chrome dominated, shot through with delicate ultraviolet and the sheen of opals. Ranks of pedestals, set in the gaps between the curving support pillars, held examples of a dozen famous artists' work. Delicate tracery followed the lines of the room, the major Vosian insignias a reoccurring motif within the complex patterns. There was light everywhere. It poured through the towering windows and was reflected again and again by a thousand mirrored surfaces until it too had been sculpted into a work of art.

If Vos was a hymn to flight, this room was the refrain sung soft and strong to anyone who stepped over the threshold.

Lord Taynset himself stood with his back to the door, staring out at the cityscape, information swirling around him. He did not turn to greet his guest at first and for a long moment, Sarristec was left in limbo, prevented by etiquette from doing anything but study the elder mech's slim form, framed as it was against the sky. After an age, Taynset turned, wings stretching, the data-streams cutting out with unsettling abruptness. Sarristec pulled his own wings in slightly tighter and inclined his head. Lords of Vos did not bow to one another but a show of deference to the true power in the city was only proper.

Taynset lifted a hand, dismissing the formalities with a simple gesture. "My Lord Sarristec. It is good of you to take the time to answer my invitation."

An invitation to attend the senior Lord in his private chamber was something you _made_ time for, as everyone was only too aware. Sarristec smiled and folded his fingers together. "Thank _you_ my Lord. I am honoured that you wish to speak to me."

Taynset smiled back briefly. "I wished to say in person how well you presented yourself – and Vos – on the newsfeeds yesterday. You handled the interview with the skill and sensitivity I have come to expect from you. Now, more than ever, you are showing yourself to be the best public face our energy ministry could have."

Accepting the praise with flattered gratitude, Sarristec drew up a mental list of everyone he had beaten to the position and quickly assessed how far ahead of them he still was.

"It is extremely pleasing to see one so young displaying so much potential – and _fulfilling_ it." Stepping down from the platform, Taynset walked slowly over to admire an example of early Vosian sculpture, a delicate crystalline figure depicting an athlete in their moment of triumph. "You are, I think, the most forward-looking Lord to join the Conclave in a long time." He tilted his head to the side. "Certainly, you are one of the most dynamic."

"I only wish to do what I can for Vos, my Lord," Sarristec told him earnestly, running through the different meanings that 'dynamic' could have. The last thing he wanted to do was to be seen as threatening to a mech who could dismantle his career with a couple of words.

"As do we all." Taynset straightened, turning his attention fully to the other flyer. "I have a request, one I am certain you will be able and willing to fulfil."

Forcing his face to remain composed, Sarristec fought back both eagerness and panic. "How may I be of service?"

"The upcoming negotiations with Praxus. It is in our interests to continue to supply their fuel needs – particularly with that wretched Tarnian cyol doing his best to undermine our standing with the Lakatera city-states. And as much as I trust Vvnet's economic judgement, I feel that you would be able to communicate our terms with greater…finesse. Will you be amenable to leading the discussions in her place?"

"Of course!" Inwardly, Sarristec cursed himself for the trace of giddy glee that had crept into his voice. "I would be honoured," he added in a more measured tone and then, daringly, "And may I say that your trust in my abilities is inspiring."

"That trust is not hard to give." Taynset gave his brief smile, optics brightening. "I have no doubt that great things lie in your future, my Lord Sarristec."

* * *

><p><em>Transformers and all associated characters and ideas belong to Hasbro and are used here purely for entertainment purposes.<em>


	13. Fighting the Current

**2.4: Fighting the Current**

**Civic Guard Base**

**Tagan**

**Cybertron**

The coordinator for the Praxus Banking Network – a member of the Avir Alva line, naturally – regarded Diatrion with all the warmth and good humour for which the financial sector was renowned. "While our client is now tragically deceased, there are surviving interests in his affairs. At this time we do not have their permission to allow external access." He looked coldly down his beak at the Civic Guardsmech. "Statutory privacy laws require me to deny your request."

Diatrion's patience had been straining ever closer to breaking point for the past two cycles. At this, it finally broke. "Sir," he snapped, "Your client has been _murdered_. He is lying in our stasis crypt in _pieces_. I am trying to find out who is responsible and I have spent two deca-cycles being shunted between flunkies whose only purpose in life seems to be to _stop me from doing my job_. And now you're saying I can't view a mech's personal financial records – and thus maybe find the reason he was _hacked to bits in a slum_ – because of _privacy laws_?"

"Exactly," the avir responded, "Thank you for your enquiry."

The communicator cut out, leaving Diatrion to stare in abject disbelief at empty air.

As extremely inviting a course of action as it might have been, he did not give full vent to his feelings towards the coordinator by smashing the communication dais. Instead, he filed a disclosure request with the Magnus' office in Iacon, shunting copies to his regional overseer and the local legal corps to make absolutely certain that everyone who needed to know about the request had been informed. The slightest failure to follow procedure could be used to block the disclosure and he couldn't afford to let that happen.

Of course, by the time he actually got to see those damned records, every last shred of useful evidence would have been edited out in accordance with a new 'privacy policy' or scrambled by a 'technical error'. Article One of the Inter-State Accords might well have decreed that all citizens were charged with assisting any and all efforts to bring a murderer to justice but, as always, the unspoken amendment was that the law only applied to those without a way around it.

If there had been a way around dealing with the Praxus Banking Network, Diatrion would have been an extremely happy mech. As it was, he had absolutely no choice. Every other line of enquiry – so far as he had been able to pursue it – had been a dud. No one had witnessed the crime, or at least, no one was admitted to having done so. The local Sky Spy network only covered the Dead End at twenty-cycle intervals, leaving gaps big enough for pitched battles, let alone a solitary brutal murder. And while footage of the inner city expressways was continuous, it was no less useless. All it showed was the victim driving away from an up-market landing pad and towards the Dead End, perfectly in keeping with the testimony of the private shuttle who had flown him in from Praxus.

What was more, only the shuttle seemed to have been aware of his boss's travel plans. His personal assistant, his stockbroker, his accountant and his clique – it would have been going too far to call them his friends – had all claimed complete ignorance. Even the shuttle had only known the destination, not the reason for going there.

And that was the problem.

Right up to the point at which his face had been ripped off, Konn Mech Tyrn had been – in Glitter's colourful assessment – a perfectly normal over-modded, over-revved, over-energised waste of raw materials. He had been one of the darlings of the Praxian social world, a high-grade who, if not well liked, was certainly well connected. The kind of mech who got invited to parties for his name rather than his company and who had never done a day's work that he could avoid. Exactly the sort of person liable to incite the rage of a down-on-their-luck labourer or an empty, desperate for fuel. Exactly the wrong sort of person to be found anywhere near a Dead End.

Besides which, the attack had been too brutal to have been carried out by an empty. It took a lot of power to so thoroughly destroy a body. Glitter had scanned the corpse down to the sub-atomic level and had concluded that the damage was almost entirely due to blunt trauma, probably inflicted with bare hands. Everything else had been caused by Konntyrn's own systems as they sparked and flared in the last moments of his life. No empty could have done all that. A labourer might have been able to, but labourers rarely hung around in Dead Ends if they could avoid it.

_Everyone_ avoided Dead Ends. So why had Konntyrn travelled across an entire region to visit one?

Diatrion was becoming increasingly convinced that finding the answer to that question was the key to cracking the whole case. It made no sense and any investigator worth their oil knew to concentrate on the things that did not make sense.

He brought up the collated biography files, scanning them for the seven hundred and sixth time in an effort to find some deeper understanding of Konntyrn's psychology. A stream of items clipped from the social feeds sped past, a window into a life that seemed to have contained little in the way of hardship. Cross-referencing with witness statements produced a picture of an opinionated bore without a care in the world. Reading it over yet again, Diatrion felt a twinge of sympathy with Glitter's antipathetic summary of the mech's character. In spite of himself, he could not help wondering if anyone would really miss Konntyrn.

He quickly put that thought aside – it was counterproductive and more than a little shameful – and focused instead on checking for any correlation between the companies in which Konntyrn had stakes and the recent bouts of rioting. He did not want to exclude the possibility that the death had been motivated by worker dissatisfaction – though as it turned out, most of the businesses were doing quite well. The worst of them had only made a few energy cuts, none of which were especially stringent. Not a particularly promising lead even if the crime hadn't taken place a thousand hix from anywhere labourers with a grudge against Konntyrn might reasonably have been found.

That said, there was the sheen of something dodgy about a good many of those business interests. Among the numerous high technology companies were more than a few with dubiously vague remits and suspicious operating histories. Perhaps a scam had gone sour, leaving no option but to –

A message flag sprang into Diatrion's awareness, the signature of the Magnus' office pulsing out of the ether. He pulled the message up and was met with the formal declaration that his request had, after due consideration, been granted. The investigators working Case A-45967# now had full authority to request and receive the disclosure of all documentation relating to the financial dealings of Konn Mech Tyrn Verous Norne.

With a certain amount of satisfaction, Diatrion ordered the communications dais to reconnect him to the coordinator of the Praxus Banking Network.

* * *

><p><strong>Planetary Defence Directorate Garrison Optir Prima<strong>

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

The protestors did not respond well to the ministrations of Simfur's security forces. Their anger more than made up for their disorganisation and the law enforcement officers were swiftly overwhelmed, lost beneath a tide of furious labourers. Flashes of energy crackled through the crowds, electricity arcing freely from fresh wounds to strike victim and attacker alike. Arms and legs, even whole torsos went flying in all directions, torn free through sheer brute force. Ironically, the mob's make-shift weaponry was doing far less damage. Laser torches and welding tools were little use against light armour, just as that armour was little use in preventing the user being torn limb from limb.

By the time the Civic Guard moved in to reinforce their local counterparts, the riot encompassed a whole sector. Spilt fuel, ignited by stray sparks, filled the air was flame and smoke. The sound of metal on metal mingled with the thrum of suppressor beams and the howls of those caught in them. Heavy transports thundered in low, swinging spotlights on those still fighting arrest, those trying to flee and those too damaged to move. The protesters were gradually driven back, herded into the open spaces and locked into stasis, their unconscious forms piled up to be sorted out later.

One particularly huge mech tried to break out of the closing trap, charging full-throttle in vehicle mode, treads flying, earthmover blade lowered to smash guardsmechs out of the way. The white figures swarmed him, grabbing hold and laying into him with their shock batons. Painfully, inevitably, his desperate flight was brought to an end, leaving him broken at the side of the road, reverting to bipedal form only to collapse to the ground in agony –

The footage froze on that image, the big green worker at the feet of the law. Megatron stepped back and folded his arms, examining the hologram with blazing optics. Suppressed rage introduced a new tension into his fighter's posture, the tell-tale signs of fury barely contained.

"How did this happen?" he asked, so quietly that the untrained observer would probably have thought it a rhetorical question. Ravage knew full well, however, that when Megatron said something aloud, no matter how quietly, he expected a response.

The quad flicked a paw dismissively. "Too many people, too little fuel. Not a formula for contentment."

Megatron scowled. "We have fought wars on a hundred planets to bring fuel to Cybertron! There should be more than enough! And even if there isn't, this –" he gestured violently at the frozen holograms "– this should not have happened! This waste of time and effort, fighting that achieves nothing – it should never have been _allowed_ to happen." He lashed out, physically deactivating – and denting – the projector, and began to pace. Since the habitation cell was of military design and therefore not particularly spacious, this was not an effective means of dispelling his irritation.

Ravage examined his claws. "And yet it was. Are you really so shocked?"

This was greeted first with silence, then with an exasperated, "No." Megatron continued to pace for a micro-cycle before rounding on his lieutenant. "But that isn't the point. It doesn't matter if everyone expects a failure to govern properly – it is still _wrong_! This world deserves better!"

"People have a right to decide how they are governed," Ravage told him with rehearsed sincerity, "and who they are governed by."

"People have a right to be governed by those who can actually govern," he growled back.

"If they wanted to change things, they could. That is a matter of pure mathematics. They choose not to."

With a disgusted snarl, Megatron turned away, treads fidgeting back and forth. He paced once, twice more and stared at the wall. Then he reactivated the viewer, recovering the hologram of the battered green mech and stared at that, scanning and rescanning every buckled panel and twisted limb. After a long while, he spoke again, low and angrily. "Every time I come back, the Cybertron I chose to fight for seems to have slipped further away. One day I think I am going to look up from the battlefield and it will be gone for good."

Ravage stretched, extending his pistons and servos to their limits. He rose from his seat at the base of the recharge berth and padded across to his commander's side, leaning his head on one side. The image of the fallen worker was mirrored in his bright golden optics, the scene of hopeless defeat taking on a new lustre in its reflection. "Then perhaps," Ravage purred, "you are on the wrong battlefield."

* * *

><p><strong>Civic Guard Base<strong>

**Tagan**

**Cybertron**

"Nothing unusual? Absolutely nothing? No unexpected visitors, no unusual messages? No threats?"

Even via hologram the former head of Konntryn's household managed to convey extreme discomfort at the questions. His single optic kept narrowing to a point of light, as if he hoped focusing in on Diatrion might make the investigator spontaneously combust. "I have already answered these questions."

"Then you should have had a chance to rehearse your answers," Diatrion told him flatly.

The red cyol bristled. "How dare – I resent the implication of that statement. My master – my former master was a legitimate businessmech. He would not tolerate anything illegal –"

"You and I know that is not true."

"What are you imp –"

"I've seen the records," Diatrion told him, carefully noting the way he twitched at the statement, "Everything looks legitimate but I would bet my axels that it isn't. Some of those companies' profits are a bit too erratic, a bit too _convenient_... This 'Dirvatech', for example. Strange how they always seemed to do well when he needed a financial boost in a hurry, don't you think?"

"I don't –"

"You know exactly what I mean. An Elite like Konntyrn lives or dies on his credibility as a reputable member of high society. I think he died trying to protect his reputation. I think he travelled halfway round the planet to die in a Dead End because he was terrified that someone would expose him as the cheating, hypocritical glitch that he was. And I think you can tell me who was blackmailing him –and what they were blackmailing him _for_, because it sure as slag wasn't money."

The servant's image stood stock still, his eye a pin-point in the middle of his face. His hands were trembling slightly. "Feel free to take your time," Diatrion prompted, gaze unwavering.

"I don't know!" Optic brightening in panic, the cyol flung his arms wide. "My master was always discrete in his – his business dealings! He may have liked the sound of his own voice but he wasn't stupid enough to say anything important in front of me!"

"And being discrete yourself, you would have heard nothing anyway."

"I…"

"And seen nothing."

"Well –"

"Which is why you're so shocked by the idea that your master was breaking the law."

"Of course! I –"

"Not because you're terrified you'll be implicated as an accomplice. Or the one who was blackmailing him."

"I was not! That's a lie! I would never do such a thing! You can't possibly believe that I would –" His panicked outburst cut off abruptly and he leaned forward imploringly. "There was a box! I don't know what was in it! He had it delivered from – somewhere, I don't know where! He received it himself, didn't let any of us see what it was! That was odd! He-he never received items in person! Never lifted a finger if he didn't have to! But that's all – that's the only thing I can think of!"

The investigator watched him coolly for half a cycle. "Your memory glitched when you gave your initial statement I suppose?"

Waving aside the babbled protests, Diatrion demanded the exact date and time of the unusual delivery and reeled off the usual statements about the recording of evidence, the potential legal proceedings and the possibility of being called as a witness. He then broke the connection – presumably much to the cyol's relief – and shunted the new data into the case file.

He smiled grimly. It had paid off. In those erratic transactions, buried deep in the Praxus Banking Network's oblique terminology and arcane indexing systems, he had found a key to the case. He had been sure of that the moment he had found them. In themselves they told he little he had not worked out for himself, but if he could back his up his suspicions with something solid then so could someone else, opening up the possibility that it had not been Konntyrn's choice to travel to Tagen at all. If Diatrion rattled enough cages with that idea, the clues to who _had_ made the choice would eventually fall out.

Now he had the beginnings of _why_ it had been made. Not to deliver blackmail money. One look at the accounts, relatively untouched of late, had ruled that out – unless Konntyrn had decided to stand up to a persecutor, but doing that alone and in person just did not fit with the way the mech had operated. To deliver that mysterious box, or at least its contents? Too soon to be certain.

Yet as he began a systematic review of the security footage from Konntyrn's residence for the date the head-of-house had specified, Diatrion could not supress a surge of excitement. For all the distance that remained ahead of him, he finally had an idea of where the road was leading.

Justice would be done. He was sure of that now. It was simply a matter of time.

* * *

><p><em>Transformers and all associated characters and ideas belong to Hasbro and are used here purely for entertainment purposes.<em>


	14. Sparks in the Tinder Box

**2.6: Sparks in the Tinder Box**

**Mahlex Industrial Sector **

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

The fires raged throughout the night and well into the morning. Tarn's emergency teams were stretched to breaking point, even with a dozen Civic Guard rapid response units backing them up. Efforts to contain the blaze were constantly thwarted as its snaking tendrils found new pockets of fuel on which to gorge. Even with the feed lines shut off, there was enough energon left in the district to keep the flames strong for hecta-cycles.

And when the fire-fighters finally won through, there was nothing left worth saving.

The Mahlex Sector had been utterly destroyed. Right down to the sub-strata, all that was left were twisted, blackened ruins, only the skeletal shells of buildings betraying the district's former regimented structure. Over a hundred mechs had died there. Even with heavy automation, the pumping stations had still needed overseers, technicians, guards – a dozen functions, minor and major, that no dumb machine could be trusted with.

They had stayed at their posts to the end. The end had come too quickly for them to have done anything else. The few bodies that had been recovered were melted beyond any chance of recovery, their superstructures destroyed right down to the micro-technological level.

As soon as the area was cool enough, the investigators moved in. The Civic Guard was quick to establish its authority over and above that of the Tarnian police. The explosion had destroyed an important part of the regional fuel distribution network: the repercussions would extend far beyond Tarn's borders. Much to the chagrin of his security officials, Governor Viilon accepted this without complaint.

He made no other official statements on the matter. He made no statements on the matter at all. Instead, he simply arrived at the disaster zone with his bodyguards and stood silently, watching a score of white mechs pick over the debris.

If he felt anything at seeing the destruction that had been wrought against the city he had built, his immobile faceplate hid it completely.

* * *

><p><strong>Vos<strong>

**Cybertron**

"You've heard the good news?"

Vvnet rose parallel to Sarristec's flight path, dragging his attention from the reams of analyses and predictions he had to process. He dipped his wings in dismissive salute, not missing the feme's barely concealed hostility but choosing to ignore it. "Some time ago," he confirmed, more than happy to point out the superior speed of his information gatherers, "It will no doubt be all over the city by now."

"I'm sure." Vvnet's tails twitched. "I'm surprised the Tarnians aren't trying harder to cover it up."

"It's hard to cover up having a major part of your infrastructure melted into slag," Sarristec pointed out loftily, "Besides, I imagine there are more than a few mechs missing their rations this morning."

"No doubt you've already promised to give them new, better rations at only three times the cost of the missing ones."

"Of course not." Sarristec resisted for a moment or two, then added, "We'll let them miss another fuelling session first."

Vvnet flicked onto a slightly higher flight path, as if distancing herself from something toxic. Her disdain amused Sarristec somewhat. Some people could not bear to watch another's successes, even when those successes were to their benefit too. He stretched his fins and angled towards the Fuel Ministry tower. "I suggested to Lord Taynset that I deliver a suitable statement for the mid-day newscasts," he mentioned offhandedly, "To express our collective sympathy for the Tarnian losses and to offer them any support we can in their hour of need…relieving them of the burden of the contracts they will no longer be able to fulfil, for example. My lord assured me that I would have access to all the major feeds for a full fifteen cycles. He was most impressed with my initiative."

The trade minister bristled, her thrusters flaring. "I'm sure he knows what he's doing," she grated, clearly implying the exact opposite, "Talking is what you do best, after all."

Sarristec chuckled contentedly, making sure to broadcast his amusement. "If it wasn't, I'd have to rely on my looks alone and then I would only be half as effective as I am."

And he banked sharply, sweeping deftly into the tower's landing hall. He snapped on to his legs and strode purposefully onwards. Bronze secretaries rushed to his side, beaming him reports in turn. Tarn had still not issued any statement. The Civic Guard were not responding to questions. The local markets were in chaos, with several major fuel distributors scrambling to cover their losses. Simfur was sending an envoy straight to Vos to negotiate new agreements.

Sarristec fixed on that for a moment. It was no secret that the Simfur oligarchy was hovering on the brink of self-destruction. Even a short interruption to the populace's energy supplies might be enough to bring about a complete collapse of the government's authority, to the point where even their famously heavy-handed enforcers would be unable to stem the tide of public violence. The obliteration of such an ugly slag-heap would be a blessing for anyone with an aesthetic sense but Sarristec supposed he could not allow that to bias the negotiations. After all, with Simfur entirely under Vos' influence, that would be one more direction in which Tarn would be unable to extend its grip on the region.

A flunky hurried up, darting in as the corridor rearranged itself to give Sarristec a more direct route to his chambers. "The outline for your speech to the newsfeeds, my lord," the diminutive hexe announced, "Direct from Lord Taynset's office."

Sarristec snatched the files from the ether and scanned them quickly. Then relaxed, happy to see that Taynset's thinking was in accordance with his own. A few small amendments to the statement he had been composing since he first heard about the explosion and he would be set for the broadcast. Barring the necessary polishing and chromo adjustments, naturally. To the rest of the world, he would be the embodiment of Vos and it would be unforgivable if that body were not seen to be absolutely perfect.

Dismissing the hexe, he turned his thoughts inwards and began planning the best posture and intonation for delivering his people's gravest regrets at Tarn's loss.

* * *

><p>S<strong>ealed Briefing Chamber<strong>

**Defence Directorate Headquarters**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

The scanners closed around Megatron, slithering across his frame, exploring him from head to foot. He tensed at the invasion, forcing himself to stay still under the scrutiny. At length, the probes retracted and the doors cycled open, allowing him entry to the conference room. Pausing only long enough to close the protective baffles on his armour, he stepped inside.

The chamber was alive with information, both visual and ethereal. Holograms circled overhead, the whole Qosho region rendered in minute detail. Tarn had prominence and the devastated industrial sector stood out as a gaping hole in the cityscape. Below, various Defence Directorate officers stood clustered in small groups, talking in low voices or on secure channels. At the far end, Supreme Commander Grandus held court, advisors and analysts orbiting his massive form, in the case of one avir, quite literally. Two more Supreme Commanders – Deftwing and Viktoleo – stood off to the side, the bulky flyer muttering darkly to the sleek tank as they poured over a complex web of movement information. And in the centre of the room, arms folded, face grim, was Deca Magnus.

Megatron had never been sure what to make of the Magnus. Physically imposing, the mech was by all accounts a formidable warrior, known to have held his own in the midst of riots and anarchist attacks. And yet he had never committed himself to a true battlefield. Even his stature was a sham. The red and blue armour made him taller even than Megatron but it was not really part of him. It was not unknown for a Magnus to fuse completely with the ceremonial trappings of the rank but Deca had never done so, preferring it seemed to shelter his original, weaker form rather than fully embrace the added strength.

It was hard to truly respect someone who treated might as something to be switched on and off at will.

"Field Commander," Grandus boomed, gesturing him closer with one mighty pincer, "Good. We can begin." The assembled soldiers moved quickly into a circle, the Supreme Commanders and the Magnus gathering together, the senior analysts and strategists fanning out before them. Megatron took his place directly opposite Grandus. The holograms reformed within the centre of the room, Tarn rendering afresh, the disaster zone bristling with labels and scan results.

"You all know what happened. I do not intend to go over details you have all already assimilated." Grandus paused, waving new information on to the display. "What is important now is to minimise the fallout."

The Magnus stepped forward and waved the epicentre into sharper focus. "The explosion appears to have been caused by a flash-point device located within one of the main pumping halls. Security feeds show it clearly in the moments immediately following detonation. Prior to that, the device did not register at all. The terrorists responsible most likely had inside help, probably from Tarnian security personnel. Investigations are on-going but there are already indications that some of the facility guards cannot be accounted for in the remains."

"Excuse me," one of the strategists interrupted, her tail arching, "but has there been some development I'm not aware of? Surely it's too early to assume that this is the work of terrorists."

A murmur of agreement ran around the assembly. Though he remained silent, Megatron could not help but note that it was an exceptionally skilled amateur who managed to plant a bomb in one of the most heavily guarded places on the planet without being detected.

Deca did not look happy. "The investigation is on-going," he repeated slowly, "however, we are inclined to the view that pointing the blame at any…official party would be highly inappropriate. The last thing anyone needs right now is for accusations to start flying. Our working hypothesis therefore is that this was the work of an anarchist or criminal cell intent on causing wide scale destruction in an effort to further extremist agendas."

So that was how it was to be. Megatron glanced at the hologram He imaged what it must have been like for those caught in the firestorm. For them, at least, the question of who had caused their deaths did not matter. And given that, did it really matter at all who was found guilty? Justice for the dead was nothing compared to the safety of the living.

Noticeably avoiding several accusatory looks from his audience, the Magnus continued, "Any terrorists currently or previously operating in the Qosho region must be located and detained. This will obviously be a large-scale operation and given the chaos that's going to break out once the fuel shortages kick in, Civic Guard resources are likely to be stretched too thin to handle it properly. This being so, planetary defence forces will be deployed as well."

Deftwing took over, red optical strip flashing as he spoke. "Two battalions will be dispatched to the Qosho region immediately. They will undertake the capture of any anarchist our intelligence operatives can identify. They will be coordinated by Civic Guard commanders but will be given operational authority during missions. We anticipate that at least some of the cells will be heavily armed and reasonably skilled in combat. It's possible they'll be expecting a response, so the emphasis here will be on striking as fast as possible."

The commander three mechs to the Magnus' left raised a hand. Megatron recognised him as the leader of one of the Homeworld Battalions. "My troops are being assigned, I take it?"

"Yours and Commander Megatron's," Deftwing agreed.

For a moment, there was silence save for the few hurried communications darting between some of the junior officers. Megatron broke it with a question. "What's the other reason?"

Viktoleo frowned at him. "Your pardon, Field Commander?"

"You're sending more troops than are usually sent to defend off-world mines from alien aggressors to deal with a few scattered terrorist groups," Megatron stated flatly, "What's the other reason we're being deployed?"

"We cannot deploy peacekeepers before the peace has been threatened," Grandus thundered, "But having defence forces ready to fulfil that capacity should it be required is not an unreasonable precaution. This cannot be your official function. Not without a Council edict permitting action against sovereign states. But that does not mean we should not prepare for the worst."

The Magnus stepped forward again. "This situation cannot be allowed to get out of hand," he insisted, banging a fist into an open palm. "We must do everything and anything we can to ensure that the status quo is restored as quickly as possible. A few hundred Defence Directorate troops should make any aggressor state think twice before attempting to stir up hostilities. And seizing every damned anarchist we can lay our hands on should show very clearly that we will not stand idly by and let honest citizens come to harm."

Honest citizens. Yes. The honest citizens that each government needed to impress and please if they wanted to stay in power. The honest citizens with the money and influence that decided whether you kept your luxury office and high-grade fuel supplies or got kicked out on to the street and forced to haul cargo and maintain buildings with the common menials. The honest citizens who would sell weapons to any anarchist willing to pay if they thought it would net them a profit or undermine their competitors. Megatron wondered how many 'honest citizens' really gave a flying glitch about the death toll, or the status quo that had been disrupted. As long as they got what they wanted – and so many would get what they wanted, with Tarn reeling from the blow – what did it matter if hostilities were stirred up? What would it matter if a dozen anarchists were rounded up and shot?

Ravage's words about battlefields suddenly came back to him and, for an instant, he imagined being able to move openly into the region and stand as a wall between Vos and Tarn, meeting any violence in kind. Perhaps even going further than that.

He pushed the thought aside. It would not happen, could not happen, so there was no point dwelling on it. Still. Tarn and Vos were military powers in their own right and were hardly likely to be intimidated by forces that did not have the authority to actually stand in their way. In such a situation, covert manoeuvres were a poor substitute for definite action. Indecisiveness, a lack of clear authority, the failure to openly assert your intentions – those were not the weapons by which peace was maintained. Especially not in the face of the deep-rooted suspicion that any misfortune _must_ be caused by those who lurked just over the border.

Megatron had been proto-formed in Tarn. His first alternate form had been scanned from one of the ancient hulks raised on a podium at the heart of the manufacturing district while the walls around him shook and echoed to the sound of heavy munitions. He had lived through the frantic struggle that had marred the last days of the old regime and through the calculated viciousness of Viilon's Logical Revolution. He had grown up hauling ore with the rest of labour-grades and had shared in their angers and prejudices. He knew all too well that blaming Vosians was the first impulse of any Tarnian who had come to harm. Mega-cycles of technocracy had not changed that. It was unlikely they ever would.

As the briefing moved on to specifics and logistics, Megatron examined the Magnus coolly. Status quo, Deca had said. Did he really know what that meant for those cities? Did he understand? Did Grandus? Did any of them?

And how could they be trusted to make the right decisions if they did not?

* * *

><p><strong>Central Processing Hub<strong>

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

Viilon stood alone in the heart of his city, single eye contracted to a pinhole of dazzling yellow light. His thoughts raced from his body. They darted and dived through networks and control systems and information poured into his mind, the day-to-day lives of a hundred thousand citizens intersecting with his consciousness. Individual productivity figures and working patterns locked together one by one, every level of Tarnian society laid bare to its master's scrutiny.

The loss of Mahlex had distorted the equations. In place of energon flow data were the Civic Guard's investigation reports, static in the midst of the ever changing computer models. Security recordings unfolded under the findings, comparison algorithms spitting out reams of contradictions and omissions. New models grew from the opposing foundations, probable scenarios playing out side by side, merging and diverging as they evolved.

Viilon saw it all and incorporated it into his worldview, altering and updating his assumptions, reconsidering his options. Old possibilities collapsed and fresh ones took their place. The logic of yesterday gave way to the logic of tomorrow. The calculations shuddered on to new tracks.

His optic spiralled wide. The Civic Guard's findings were not enough. He could not compute the correct course of action based on such limited and skewed inputs. Too many variables remained too poorly defined. More information was needed. A new perspective was required.

"Connect me to the Kalis municipal communications network," he ordered, reeling his consciousness back into his body, "Locate and contact: Ident six-five-six-nineteen-tryptic-prima. Reference: commercial investigator, Masz Mech Adep Lyivas Keldon; sub-reference: Nightbeat."

* * *

><p><em>Transformers and all associated characters and ideas belong to Hasbro and are used here purely for entertainment purposes.<em>


	15. A Fresh Optic

**2.7: A Fresh Optic**

**Remains of the Mahlex Industrial Sector **

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

There was no real reason to visit the blast site personally. For starters, the site itself did not exist anymore. The heart of the explosion had vaporised pretty much everything within the pumping hall, then the pumping hall itself. A few support struts remained, all but unrecognisable as architecture. They might have made good art. Perhaps Tarn could exhibit them. Though that would have required some sort of organised state art-appreciation-and-publicity ministry, which Tarn definitely did not have.

It was possible to recreate the distribution plant in minute detail, mapping visual information over the landscape or projecting a fully-realised holographic reconstruction over the blacked, smelted ruins. Working with the results of the city's security scanner fetish, everything from ground to low-orbit could be rolled back in time to the instant of detonation. Which was useful. Context was everything. A thousand factors had shaped that moment and it was handy to have them ready to…hand –

Astronomical information. Source that from Tarn's observatories and the half-dozen others that would have been monitoring the relevant areas of sky. Double check for sunspot activity, electromagnetic storms, passing freighters and so on and so forth. Disturbances. Disruptions in the ether. Anything that might have affected the security systems from afar. Could that have been planned? Of course. Everything could be planned, with enough information. Clearly the bomber(s) had known the layout of the plant. It would not be that much of a stretch to connect that with forecasts and shipping data –

What interference had there been from the sub-levels? Could that have been amplified? Looking down into the yawning pit that had been left after the surface-levels' obliteration, there would have been a lot of room to plant something that could have subtly altered the sensors' perception, though that would have meant accessing the sub-strata, which was notoriously difficult without a heavy-duty construction effort, meaning that they would have had to get in via existing routes, which would imply exceptional stealth abilities – already demonstrated by the fact they had got the bomb in at all – and/or access to security protocols that allowed them to bypass detection without any trouble. In which case, why bother with sub-levels and not just come from the front door? Unless both, one to disrupt the sensors, one to deliver the bomb, two agents working in precise coordination –

The point was there was nothing he could learn from visiting personally the scene of the crime that could not be learnt from downloading all the relevant information at some remote location. With all the physical evidence destroyed, the security feeds were the only source of forensic detail. Not an especially promising start, given that those feeds were the ones that had been deceived in the first place and so must be considered inherently untrustworthy, though that in itself was a relevant factor. The schematics. As complete as possible. Learn what had been fooled, that would narrow down the possibilities for what had done the fooling –

Of course, regardless of its practical use for the investigation, it always reassured the victim to see the detective striding confidently through the crime-scene, picking up clues as he went. Illogical, but there it was. Virtual interaction would never be a true substitute for physical presence –

Though, actually, Nightbeat thought as he climbed back up to the mobile observation platform, in this case it was a wasted effort. Governor Viilon did not do illogical. The chances of him being reassured by the usual show were low to non-existent. As were the chances of him needing to be reassured in the first place. Which would make things interesting.

"Good news, Governor. I can safely say that this is the most impressive case of industrial sabotage I have ever seen. And you're a sure bet for 'most impressive crater' at this year's Urban Landscaping contest."

The large purple Tarnian with the one optic and zero sense of humour said nothing to this. It was fascinating, really. Cyols, like anyone else, usually had a certain amount of expression, if not in their faces, then in their bodies as a whole. But Viilon might as well have been a statue, or a computer terminal. Completely blank and unmoving. A calm eye in a stormy world. Or an unfeeling scientifically minded tyrant who had deleted most of his personality in an effort to expand his intellect to the next level. One of the two, depending on who was making the observation.

Viilon himself would pick the second option. He cared as much for poetry as he did for humour. An intriguing quirk, pure self-knowledge. If it really was pure. You had to wonder, didn't you? How deep the scientific worldview really went?

Nightbeat brushed soot from his arms and succeeded mainly in smearing it a little more over his blue armour. Since it was of high unimportance what he looked like when dealing with a mech who saw him merely as a roving analytical subroutine, he did not bother to clean up further. "The bad news, Governor, is that I can also safely say that someone _really_ doesn't like you."

"An uninteresting observation," Viilon told him curtly, "One that adds nothing to my understanding of events."

"And what is your understanding of events, Governor?" Nightbeat watched carefully for a sign of emotion, any hint that the purple cyol was angry or even irritated by what had been done to his city.

Nothing. Not even an answer. Just that unwavering yellow stare.

"Alright, better question." Nighbeat tapped his chest plate. "What am I doing here?"

"You are the one who designated this meeting place."

"Not what I meant. What am I doing here _with you_? Why do you want to hire me, Governor?"

Viilon stared at him. There really were not that many other options when you had one eye and no mobile faceplates. "You are one of the highest rated commercial investigators available."

"I am. But some of the best investigators on the planet have been over this place. Weren't they enough?"

For a moment, he thought the purple mech was going to blank him again. But instead, shifting his angular shoulders a little, Viilon replied, "This line of questioning is not relevant. I do not need to explain my reasoning to you."

"No," Nightbeat agreed, "You really don't. It's pretty obvious you don't trust the Civic Guard's findings. How could you? They have a vested interest in reaching a conclusion that doesn't implicate anyone important and reaching it quickly. Even if they're right, you couldn't be sure that they hadn't left out some vital detail. You can't accuse them of that, of course, because if you did, your political rivals would accuse you of everything from breaking the Inter-State Accords to questioning the divinity of the Prime. You can't have your own police double check for the same reason, plus which they're all biased. I mean, come on – what Tarnian isn't going to look at this and accuse a Vosian of causing it? You could investigate yourself, but aside from the fact that you'd have as much chance of getting underworld contacts to open up as a Circuit Master would of flying to the moons, you've got a city to run. You can't afford the time. So you hire me. Because I'm not affiliated with anyone. Because I used to be in the Civic Guard, which gives me a bit more credibility. Because unlike the Civic Guard, I'm not afraid to do whatever it takes to close a case. And because I am very, very good at what I do."

Viilon's optic contracted. It was probably the single mode of expression he was actually capable of. "A demonstration of your ability is not required."

"Hah!" Nightbeat laughed, throwing his arms wide. "Governor, _that_ was me proving I've been paying attention. If I wanted to demonstrate my ability, I'd just ask if I can see the body now, please."

"Body?" To give him his credit, there was no hint of guilt in the question. Of course, since there were low frequency hums that displayed more variety than Viilon's voice, there was no hint of puzzlement or confusion either.

"The body," Nightbeat repeated, leaning forward slightly, "_The_ body. Probably a security mech, or a mid-level technician. Someone unimportant with just enough security clearance to be dangerous. Someone who might be bribed or threatened into sharing the daily routine and all those important little details you can't find in the schematics. In debt? No, probably not, not in this city. Greedy? Almost certainly. And very, very dead. Necessarily. It's the only way it could have been done. However they fooled your sensors, they needed insider information and a way to get the bomb in. They could have used auto-scouts or decoys or some sort of modified scraplet swarm, but those would be out of the ordinary and therefore set all the alarms off at once. No, the only sure way would be something that was meant to be there, something that didn't rely on hacking an important control system.

"Of course," he went on, waving airily at their surroundings, "the most obvious conclusion is that whoever the insider was, they died in the explosion. Except, it's very hard to find people who'd be willing to blow themselves up in a good cause these days. And that's assuming they believed in it at all. There are three main categories of terrorist at the moment. The religious fanatics who had decided that 'all are one' means 'when entropy is maximum' and have decided to lay on an express service to that oh-so final destination. Can't rule them out but it's probably safe to assume that your lovely little surveillance state makes it pretty unlikely they've got a hidden following among your power-plant workers – and what self-respecting, logical-revolution embracing Tarnian is going to be a Chaos-worshiper anyway? Then there're those mad, dangerous lunatics who think that everyone on Cybertron is entitled to enough fuel to keep themselves online and out of the Allspark's final embrace. Well, the mad dangerous, _armed_ lunatics who think that and aren't afraid to use large bangs to drive their point home. But I have to say, I can't think of anything less likely to advance their cause than immolating the Qosho fuel-grid, so it's probably safe to count them out of the running. And finally, of course, we have the anarchists – which means everyone who happens to disagree with any current government and does so at the tops of their voices while waving around a big gun, rather than from a position of power in a city-state that's running their political system of choice. Everyone from the latter-day Re-unificationists to the actual anarchists."

Breaking off, Nightbeat grinned widely. "There are even people who think that an autocratic military tyranny maintaining a constant watch on its citizens for any sign of deviancy or anti-state sentiments is _unethical_. I mean, can you imagine?"

Viilon's optic contracted again. He said nothing but still: there was just the hint that his patience might be wearing a little bit thin.

Taking that as a victory, Nightbeat resumed his lecture, pacing up and down the spacious inspection platform and tapping his fingertips together to emphasise his points. "The bottom line is, you would never allow extremists, proven or suspected, to work in your industrial complexes, and it seems unlikely that someone willing to blow themselves up for their cause would be able to hide their politics from your security sweeps. More importantly, you obviously doubt the Civic Guard's claims that this was caused by fanatics. You must have some reason for that. At the very least, you must be unsatisfied with their explanations. The most _logical_ conclusion from both is that someone who was not caught in the blast itself can be connected with it, if only by the suspicious coincidence that they have turned up dead afterwards. And whoever that inside agent was, they _will_ be dead. Keeping them alive would be too dangerous for whoever was really behind this – who clearly want to remain anonymous since they haven't jumped up and claimed this as a victory for '[insert cause here]', which is surely what a fanatical group trying to make a point would do."

He stopped and spun to face Viilon. "Which brings me back to my original question: can I see the body now, please, Governor?"

The purple cyol looked down at him. The Tarnian was much taller and considerably boarder, a consequence both of where he had been brought online and the military grade armour that had been added later. Doubtless the effect was calculated to be intimidating to those in his presence and as a reminder of his people's physical might, both on a patriotic and a political level. That and reducing the chance of being shot dead. Nightbeat met his gaze steadily. If the Governor wanted someone to find out who was behind the destruction of the Mahlex district, he was unlikely to rip their head off with his bare hands.

"I will make arrangements for you to view the remains of Secondary Technician 3728: Vaseeltron on our return to the central district," Viilon stated, signalling the platform to lift off. That was it. No dissembling, no irritation, nothing about the demonstration of the investigator's art. Fine. That was actually a refreshing change. It was always easier to do the job when it was nearly impossible to offend your employer.

Nightbeat lowed himself into car mode and settled on to his wheels, content to let the journey pass in silence. His mind was already racing onwards, trying to second-guess what he would find in whichever of Viilon's dungeons the late-lamented Vaseeltron's mortal remains had been stowed. He could see the edges of the patterns before him, tantalising connections springing up wherever he looked. The familiar surge of excitement was taking hold.

Somewhere out there, the truth was lurking, a solution scuttling across the face of the planet, ready and waiting to be tracked down.

The hunt was on.

* * *

><p><strong>Vosian State Newsfeed<strong>

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

"_The Conclave of Vos is united in our horror at this atrocity. We are appalled at the loss of life and the destruction that has been wrought upon our neighbours. For all the differences we have with Tarn, let it never be said that the people of Vos would ever condone the actions of fanatics and anarchists. Whatever genuine grievances they may have had, there can be no justification for this attack. In striking against Tarn in this reprehensible manner, they have struck not just against one city – they have struck against all of us and denied their cause any sympathy that we might have offered it."_

_Sarristec paused, seemingly overwhelmed by emotion. Composing himself, he drew himself up anew and gestured emphatically with a fist. "Rest assured that the full might of the Vosian Justice Ministry stands alongside the Civic Guard and the Defence Directorate in their efforts to track down the perpetrators. We shall not stand idly by and allow a few unbalanced individuals to disrupt this region at will. The Conclave is committed to fulfilling our obligations under the Inter-State Accords to ensure peace and stability for all free Cybertronians. And I know that, as ever, the people of Vos are with us."_

_He shifted his stance, opening his hands and leaning imperceptibly forwards. "To those many thousands of honest, hard-working people who are suffering because of this tragedy, I say this: our commitment to the Qosho Region goes beyond aiding the search for justice. We are aware that the destruction of the Mahlex distribution centre has had repercussions far beyond Tarn's borders. Vital supplies are no longer reaching many of those states presently reliant on Tarnian fuel. With no immediate resolution to this crisis in sight, we offer our own fuel distribution services to any city that needs them. We are already in negotiation with the Simfur government to provide emergency relief: we are willing to enter into talks with any other affected state."_

_Spreading his wings wide, he raised his fist again. "We shall not surrender to those who threaten our way of life. We shall not give in to those who have abandoned the rule of law. If our intervention marks the difference between restored stability and decay into chaos, then we will not – _cannot_ – stand aside and do nothing. If Tarn can no longer provide for you, we shall step into the breach. If you are empty, we shall offer you fuel. If you are in need, we. Will. Help. You."_

_The Vosian insignia orbiting Sarristec's image swelled, moving into prominence. His fist clashed against his chest in the ancient symbol of military fraternity. "Do not let those who cower behind acts of terror break us apart. Vos stands with you this day. Vos stands with you for as long as you need our support. This we swear! Till all are one!"_

* * *

><p><em>Transformers and all associated characters and ideas belong to Hasbro and are used here purely for entertainment purposes.<em>


	16. Firefighting

**2.8: Fire-fighting**

**Underground Bunker**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

The rumbler charge shattered the bunker's roof in two-point-oh-four micro-cycles. The shockwave drove the resulting dust down into the chamber below, filling it with a thick metallic fog that smothered everything in an instant. Three anarchists gave themselves away at once by crying out and were tagged with disruptor claws. They collapsed in agony, twisting and morphing uncontrollably as the claws overrode their primary transformation relays.

Optrion's combat subroutines were picking out fresh targets before his feet touched the floor, the variation of the fog's the content and density and the hum of burning energon providing more than enough data to map the room and everyone in it. Already thrown by the explosion and with their less sophisticated sensory systems struggling to adjust to the abrupt environmental shift, the terrorists were overwhelmed in moments. Those who managed to fire back did so with little accuracy and only scored hits by virtue of the confined space, and even then, military grade armour was more than a match for their limited arsenal.

The egress point secure, Optrion led the way deeper into the base, pausing at the first junction to allow Ironhide to scout ahead. A rocket burst against the red mech's reinforced shoulders, shrapnel ricocheting across the passageway. While his lieutenant's vision cleared, Optrion darted into the open and fired twice past his knee. The defender gave a short, sharp yell as the unexpected angle allowed the suppressor rounds to enter his body through his hip joint. A blaze of electricity and he crashed to the ground, smouldering and unconscious.

The anarchists' staging post must have been created using malfunctioning shaper packages, or else they had deliberately avoided neat geometric tunnels. The passageways weaved haphazardly and awkwardly, with too many twists and blind-alleys for vehicular travel to be useful. The squad sent sensor drones whizzing ahead but the actual fighting was stop-and-start, a long sequence of ducking round and quick bursts of fire as they steadily rooted anarchists, one at a time from their hiding places. Larger chambers were filled with smoke and swept with suppressor fire, the exact make-up of the smog constantly altered to prevent the enemy from adapting to it.

Every so often, the anarchists would bring out heavier weapons, or grenades, perhaps hoping that a larger blast radius would make up for their impaired accuracy. At one point, they even detonated ramshackle bombs in the roof, trying no doubt to block the squad's advance. Trailbreaker and Beachhead overlapped their forcefields, holding the walls up with a tunnel of silver light while two more troopers ran forward and deployed bracer staves, yellow rods that expanded and forked, forming a toughened framework to keep the passageway open.

With troops closing on them from multiple entry points, the remaining terrorists were driven to the centre of the complex, away from the easy escape routes. Warnings flashed across Optrion's consciousness as energy emissions from that rapidly diminishing 'safe' region spiked drastically. A bass tone set the floor vibrating – the sound of some drastic counter-measure being readied.

Optrion signalled four of his heavy troopers to accelerate past the scouts and charge the remaining barriers. He took the fifth access route himself, keeping up a steady stream of fire against anyone and anything that stood in way. With Ironhide hot on his heels, he burst into an irregularly shaped room filled with packing containers and frightened anarchists. Several floor panels had been hastily thrown aside, no doubt giving access to a last-ditch escape tunnel.

The sound was coming from a large cylinder that stood off to one side, an ugly grey device pulsing with angry red light. Optrion's weapons catalogues identified it immediately as a mark seven tri-phasic mining charge, designed to blast mountains into conveniently sized pebbles for swift processing. He shot a liquid-core slug straight through the control node and the lights snapped off, safeties kicking in even before the anti-conductive gel had finished hardening inside the casing.

In the time it took the mining charge to shut down, Geeniex, Thunderfoot, Icepick and Flak had wiped out the anarchists with a hail of low-yield fire. The last of them tumbled into the escape tunnel with a despairing scream. Diving past Optrion, Ironhide leapt after the falling mech, vanishing completely from view. The sharp retort of gunfire echoed up, a mix of controlled shots and wild firing, then silence.

"All cleah!"

Even though he knew the likelihood of Ironhide coming out worse in the engagement was low, Optrion still felt relieved at hearing his voice. He signalled an acknowledgement then took stock of the situation. The base had been secured, with twenty three mechs subdued and accounted for. No fatalities, seven stasis-locks, sixteen forced shut-downs. No casualties on the squad either, with only minor injuries. The captured material included large stockpile of small and medium arms, plus a few large explosive devices, several illegal modification units and a handful of auto-scouts in various stages of retrofitting. The communications experts were already hacking into the anarchists' data recorders – which had been automatically scrambled but might still contain retrievable data – and into the anarchists themselves, who had had no time to blast their own processors to gibberish.

Across the Qosho region, three dozen similar raids were meeting with similar success. A steady stream of information over the command net showed terrorists and fanatics falling like hexnuts before a combination of soldiers and Civic Guard special operations teams. So far, things had gone remarkably well. There were two pitched fire fights in progress, however, one near Tagan, another in the vicinity of Simfur, where Megatron himself was leading the assault on a suspected Chaos-worshiper cult.

"This one's got gladiator markings," Icepick called out, heaving a stocky grey cyol from away from one of the munitions crates. "Kalis Red, ten seasons ago."

"An' this one's got ah inbuilt energo-sword," Flak called back, flipping another downed mech onto his back. The soldier knelt down and shook the offending arm. "Looks pretty badly made though."

"There's more crates an' stuff down there," Ironhide reported, heaving himself out of the escape tunnel, "All loaded on a truck ready ta send off ta the west. Tunnel curves, but not by much."

"Get a tracer down there," Optrion ordered. He turned to the troopers examining the weapons cache, intending to ask for an update on their progress. Before he could, the battalion command channel screamed for his attention.

"_Lieutenant __Commander __Optrion.__" _Ravage's voice cut in without preamble, security codes weaving around the communication. _"__Rendezvous __with __squads __three __and __seven __and __proceed __immediately __to __Commander __Megatron__'__s __location.__"_

"_We __are __still __processing __targets __two __and __seven,__"_ Optrion protested, even as he relayed the order to his troops.

"_Leave __the __rest __for __the __White __and __Blues. __You're __needed __here. __We __have __encountered __some__…__unexpected __resistance.__"_

An image flashed across the network, presumably recorded from whatever vantage point Ravage was concealed in. Megatron's forces were pouring fire into a large crater that had been blasted into one of Simfur's ground expressways. A ragtag bunch of heavily armoured mechs and quads were swarming out of the crater, wielding everything from plasma rifles to a mining laser. At first, Optrion could not see why Megatron should need to call for assistance.

Then something massive surged out of the smoke and seized one of the troopers in its jaws.

Black and orange, with two great arms and a vicious streamlined head, it raced forward on four huge spiked wheels, moving with incredible speed for something that looked so unwieldy.

"_Looks __like __some __sort __of __over-modding __experiment __gone __wrong,__"_ Ravage commented dryly, _"__Or __perhaps __this __is __gone __right, __if __you__'__re __a __chaos-worshipper.__" _Biting the trooper in its mouth clean through, the monster knocked three more aside with frenzied blows and roared in animalistic fury, energy bolts splashing off its scaled armour like so much water._ "__Either __way, __we __are __having __some __difficulty __finding __the __off-switch.__"_

His troops falling in behind him, Optrion headed for the exit. "We're on our way."

* * *

><p><strong>Civic Guard Base<strong>

**Tagan**

**Cybertron**

There was a large chunk of building sticking out of Diatrion's arm. He regarded it dispassionately, pondering the force with which the shard of metal must have been thrown to lodge quite so deeply in his armour. The sheer fury necessary to rip a girder apart and then fling the bits hard enough that they stuck fast in the hapless glitches trying to calm everything down was impressive, even granting that riots were traditionally full of very angry people. If nothing else, it spoke volumes about the populace's satisfaction at being told that their fuel rations were being cut yet again.

Having finally reattached Talainat's lower leg – a process complicated by the need to drain a copious amount of liquid from it, the result of a particularly high-spirited rioter trying to fling the limb to the other side of the harbour – the medic bustled over to hum and ah over Diatrion's arm. After what seemed like an unnecessary amount of prodding and poking, she extended her micro-fingers, got a tight grip on the shard and pulled hard. Diatrion winced in pain as the metal scraped free.

The medic tossed it into a bowl, then briefly jabbed a matter agitator into the wound. "You'll do," she told him curtly, and moved on to the next injured guardsmech.

"Thank you," he called after her, but she was already working to replace a shredded tyre.

He got up and walked to the door, surveying the damage as he went. Maybe thirty guardsmechs with minor injuries, and blessedly, minor injuries only. By some minor miracle, the crowds had been dispersed without a shot being fired, suppressor or otherwise. No one was happy about the property damage, true, but broken buildings were easy to fix. Broken people – not so much.

Speaking of which, he had information to cross-reference.

With riots and the threat of more, not to mention a full-scale anti-terrorist operation going on around them, Diatrion had become increasingly side-tracked from the Konntryn case. There were still investigators working on it, of course, and the amount of information he had to work with was steadily increasingly, but he personally had not been able to turn his full attention to it for a couple of days. The worst thing was that he could not argue with being put on riot duty. His line was known for their inherent strength and durability and he had scored highly in the combat tests at the Academy. It made sense. It was logical. And it was incredibly frustrating. Konntryn's murder was _his_ case. Not seeing it through to the end or, worse, permitting it to go unsolved, whatever the extenuating circumstances, would be _his_ failure.

This thought followed him through the corridors. He made himself to go to the energon dispensary, hating the added distraction but knowing full well that he would be no good to anyone if he did not maintain his fuel levels. The size of the ration gave him pause and he felt momentarily guilty about taking the optimum amount having recently been face to face with those forced to exist on far less. He forced his mind quickly back to the case. Worrying about things beyond his control was a waste of precious time and even more precious energy.

He found the door to his office sealed, as he had left it, and beamed the appropriate codes to unlock it. The door promptly slid aside and he automatically stepped inside, signalling the lights. It was only after he had done so that he registered that the lights were already on and that there was a junior investigator standing on the communication-dais, flicking through his files.

Diatrion's first reaction was to ask what it was the other mech was looking for. After all, he had been unavailable for some time and was not about to discipline someone who was doing their best to carry on cases in his absence. Then his processors caught up with his sensors and he registered both the oddity of the seal being put back on the door and the investigator's energy signature.

"What are you doing here?"

The junior investigator spun around, grinned and spread his arms. "Waiting for you!" He brushed lightly at his chest plate. "Sorry about the false-colours. I needed to be sure I didn't get shot by accident." His livery rippled and shifted, white to blue, blue to yellow, the Civic Guard insignias vanishing completely.

"I wouldn't have shot you whatever you looked like," Diatrion stated flatly.

"No, but then you're a 'cautious, reliable officer who rarely jumps into a situation before he has taken a good look at it first.' Or that's what your files say. Incidentally, you're really overdue a raise, especially if you keep pulling all those double shifts…_what __am __I __doing_. Not who. You know who I am."

Diatrion pulled up the information that had been flagged the moment he had recorded the other mech's signature. "Maszadep, formerly Junior Investigator with the Uraya division. Now a commercial investigator operating out of Kalis."

"I prefer Nightbeat, and you left out the part about me being one of the highest rated mechs in my profession."

"I'm not in the habit of flattering people who fabricate evidence."

"I did _not_ fabricate it!" Nightbeat sounded genuinely offended. "I extrapolated from the _existing_ evidence and reconstructed the evidence that had been _destroyed_."

"Totally exceeding the statutory limits on reconstructive procedures." Diatrion placed himself calmly between Nightbeat and the door.

"Some would argue that those limits are unnecessarily stringent and are, in fact, intended to benefit those who don't like the idea of functional laws."

"I am not going to start debating legal failings with a civilian," Diatrion stated flatly, "I'll ask you again: what are you doing here?"

Nightbeat leant his head to the side, eyes narrowing slightly. "I want to talk to you about the late, possibly lamented Konntryn."

"There is absolutely no reason I should discuss that with you."

The blue mech looked imploring. "I'm a fellow seeker of truth, a fellow sentinel against injustice!"

"You resigned."

"Before they could throw me out! Wait –" He broke off, apparently in confusion. "Sorry, that usually happens the other way round. Anyway, the reason is that I can help. Obviously. I mean, the full force of the Magnus' Office at your back and how far have you got? He was in the Dead End to deliver _something_ that _may_ have come from _one_ of his companies to _someone_ who slagged him to stop anyone learning what the _something_ was. Legal history in the making."

Diatrion took a step forward. He was much taller than Nightbeat and nearly twice as broad. He knew from the records that the commercial investigator was a competent hand-to-hand fighter but nothing spectacular. It would be a simple matter to subdue him and drag him to the cells – after charging him with illicit entry and hacking into official systems –

"Ok, ok!" Nightbeat waved his hands frantically. "You wouldn't believe I'm acting for Konntryn's clan, would you? No. Of course not. They don't really care he's dead, they just want to know what they can get out of it – oh, and you can stop looking at me like that, I am actually officially signed in at the front desk as a visitor. They gave me a tag and everything – see? I just got bored and 'lost' and you really should instigate better security around here. I mean, I didn't actually realise it was locked until I was inside –"

Diatrion took another step forward.

"I'm working for Governor Viilon!" Nightbeat stopped, making sure the guardsmech wasn't going to advance any further before continuing. "He wants me to find out who blew up his processing plant."

"What has that got to do with my case?" Diatrion demanded, compiling at least seven possible answers to his own question, none of which were supported by any evidence in his possession.

"You'll like this." Rebooting the holo-display, Nightbeat brought up the scans of Konntryn's corpse. "You see, turns out there's one single solitary technician who _wasn__'__t_ blown to Primus in the Mahlex explosion when he really should have been. Once I'd got everything I could from the corpse – he's dead, by the way – I started running some comparisons, looking to see if I could match the cause with anything local. Eventually your little mystery came up and, well…"

He projected another hologram, one not from the case file. A second body materialised beside Konntryn, a figure of medium size and neutral colours who would have been completely unremarkable if they hadn't been suffering from enough impact damage to destroy almost every identifying feature.

Side by side, the similarities between the corpses were painfully obvious.

"Viilon's people do excellent autopsies," Nightbeat explained, flicking readouts into the air, "And luckily, so do yours. I ran the comparison. The patterns are as identical as anything that's caused by prolonged blunt trauma could ever hope to be."

With a slow, measured tread, Diatrion walked around the holograms, taking note of every last detail. He too ran the comparison of the autopsy reports, Nightbeat watching impatiently. He had not been wrong. The resemblance was not just superficial. The size and shape of the wounds, the obliteration of identifying marks, the complete destruction of consciousness – they all indicated a common cause. And the security seals of the Tarnian Police were genuine, which suggested the evidence had not simply been 'extrapolated' from Glitter's reports.

Impatience bubbling over, Nightbeat began to pace and gesticulate. "I cross-checked reports from across the region, murders, assault, solved or unsolved. This case stood out from all the rest – and the circumstances! I wasn't sure until I read your files – _stop __looking __at __me __like __that __and __make __your __passwords __harder __to __guess_ – look, I think we both had a good idea of what that _something_ Konntryn was killed over might have been, and poor old Vaseeltron was _definitely_ killed because he knew too much – and since they were both killed by the same person, that means –"

"Stop."

Nightbeat did so, so fast he might as well have run head-first into the hand Diatrion held up. "Firstly," the guardsmech told him, "any link between this case and the destruction of the Mahlex District is circumstantial at best. Just because you are convinced there is one does not automatically mean it exists. Secondly," he continued over Nightbeat's protests, "you are not a fellow officer, you are a private individual conducting an investigation for profit. I am under no obligation to help you. In fact, the regulations forbid it."

"I know the regu –"

"And thirdly, the only thing I am under an obligation to do is to arrest you for breaking into my office and hacking into my files."

For an instant, he thought Nightbeat was going to attack him. The blue mech tensed and raised his arms angrily, his faceplates shifting with frustration and disbelief. Then he spread his fingers and jabbed them at Diatrion. "One hundred and fifty seven innocent people died in that explosion. Vaseeltron sold them out but he probably didn't really know what he was doing. The Pit knows how many others whoever's behind this had to kill to make themselves safe – and Primus! Let's even say that Konntryn didn't deserve to be beaten into scrap! Someone out there killed these people and they are getting away with it! No, you stop, don't say anything, hear me out. It is _not_ circumstantial. I _know_ there is a connection. I've run the numbers, checked the facts, calculated the probabilities. _It __fits_. And even if it didn't, Vaseeltron and Konntryn would still have been killed by the same person. This is _part __of __your __case_. I've seen your profile, Dia Mech Trion Novus Zar. You are a good officer, you care about solving your cases and seeing that justice is done. You cannot ignore this any more than I could. But you _won__'__t __solve __this __without __my __help_. Oh, maybe you'd get half the answers. But you're a White n' Blue. Whoever murdered these mechs was not someone in Konntryn's social world. They won't have an account with the Praxus Banking Network. They will not be refined and they will not try to dodge you by playing by the rules. They will run, they will stay silent or they will rip you in half. Most likely, you would never get near them. _I __can_. I can find them, I can get close to them, _I __can __find __out __why __these __people __are __dead_."

Crossing his arms, Diatrion looked Nightbeat straight in the optics. "I will not break the law to enforce it."

"Then don't," Nightbeat replied, tone light again, "Just don't lock me up for looking in your files. I will tell you everything I discover. That's a promise. I will give you Konntryn's murderer."

"Don't you mean, give them to Viilon?"

"My job is find out who was behind the attack on Tarn. No one's said anything about what happens to them afterwards. Well, Investigator? Do we have an agreement?"

To let him go free would be a violation of the laws Diatrion had sworn to uphold with his life. That was simple fact. The Civic Guard did not collaborate with amateurs, it did not accept evidence through third parties and it most certainly did not allow its case files to be distributed to commercial investigators who had actively broken security and committed multiple criminal acts. It could not have been more clear cut. There should have been no 'other hand'.

But of course there was.

The riots, obstructive bureaucracy, leads growing ever colder – and he could not ignore what he had just been shown, could he? He could not use it either, not without some extremely uncomfortable conversations with the Tarnian police, but that wasn't the point. 'Seeing that justice is done.' Surely _that_ the point. Did the methods matter?

Yes. They did. They always did.

"No." Diatrion shook his head firmly. "No agreement."

Nightbeat's face fell and his arms dropped limply to his sides. He backed away as Diatrion walked over and stepped on to the dais, dismissing the holograms with a wave. Puzzlement quickly overtook his expression, however, as the guardsmech made no move to grab him.

And then he grinned.

"Can I help you?" Diatrion asked flatly.

"No…thank you, no." Nightbeat shrugged expansively and went to the door. "Wrong room. I'll find my own way out." He paused on the threshold, grin showing again. "Investigator? You won't regret this."

But of course, he already did.

_Transformers and all associated characters and ideas belong to Hasbro and are used here purely for entertainment purposes._


	17. Public Image

**2.9: Public Image**

**Main Conference Room**

**The Palace of Law**

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

"Come now, surely it is but a small consideration given the benefits that Tagan will see?" Sarristec put on his most winning smile. "Benefits your citizens surely deserve."

And more importantly, he added silently, benefits your citizens are getting ready to rip from your rusting carcases, you bunch of slack-witted cretins. And if you've looked across at Simfur lately, you'll know where that leads. Clearly thinking similar thoughts, the Tagan ambassador shifted uncomfortably on his perch and flicked at the air with crimson wings. "Small considerations have a habit of leading to large concessions, Lord Sarristec." The avir angled his head sharply to the left. "We appreciate that your proposed conditions are relatively generous. We are not, however, willing to prejudice our city's future security for the sake of the Conclave's ambitions."

Sarristec lent back, expression cooling. "I'm sure your people will understand your reluctance to commit yourselves to a course of action you deem imprudent. I feel it only fair to warn you, however," he went on before the ambassador had a chance to respond, "that while we would like to extend our help to all those suffering from the loss of Tarnian-sourced fuel supplies, we realise that this is not a realistic goal. At some point, we will simply be unable to assist any more cities. Given the vital role that Tagan plays in this region's economic life, we would hate for it to fall the wrong side of that point."

"Lord Sarristec…" The ambassador drew his wings about him and looked down his beak. "You appear to be under the mistaken impression that Vos is the only state willing and able to replace our energy needs until Tarn is able to restore its export facilities. We have already received several offers, most of which do not involve any 'considerations', small or large."

Sarristec could have laughed in his face. "Ah yes," he said, with a smaller, more knowing smile, "but Vos is the only state in a position to supply you immediately. The existing supply network between our two cities can handle the increased load with no difficulty. Can the same be said of the pipelines from Ankmor?"

To which the answer was, no, it could not. Which the Tagan government knew all too well. Which was why they had come to Vos first.

The ambassador fluttered, trying desperately to cover his embarrassment at having his bluff called. "Perhaps we might take a short recess, so that I might consult with my superiors?"

"Of course, ambassador." Sarristec rose from his seat. "Please take as long as you wish. We have several other representatives we need to meet with in any case." He savoured the panic that crossed the ambassador's face as he showed him remorselessly to the door.

"Ember and Pit," Vvnet muttered once the avir was gone, speaking for the first time since the conference had begun, "Why don't you just out-right threaten him and be done with it?"

"Come now, you of all people should know that's not how the game is played," Sarristec admonished her, returning to his seat.

"You enjoy it too much," she retorted bluntly.

"_I__'__m_ not the one who mismanaged Tagan's menial classes. They buy fuel from three different providers, handle enough freight that they have shannix to spare and they _still_ manage to get themselves into this situation? Give me one reason why I shouldn't enjoy this."

Vvnet's armour flared slightly, blue fins parting to show more of the green beneath. "I said, you enjoy it _too__much_. We need to look like we're being reasonable about this, the heroes stepping in to save our neighbours from their mistaken faith in Tarn. _You_ are coming damn close to making us look insufferably smug."

"My dear Lord Vvnet…" Sarristec rested his chin on folded hands. "Is this envy?"

She looked at him in utter revulsion. "What in Primus' name are you talking about?"

"Oh, it's all so obvious," he said, smirking, "You spend stellar-cycles struggling along at the Commerce Ministry, making mundane deal after mundane deal with petty states not worthy to be Vos' _building__materials_, let alone its allies – and then someone with actual vision and charisma comes along and starts making all the important moves that you never could. I can understand why you might find that a little difficult to accept…"

"You poisonous little –" Vvnet hissed and half-rose, her wings snapping up and out.

"Temper, temper," Sarristec admonished, "Let's not fight when we have delicate negotiations to conduct. Besides, there's no point getting angry." He leant forward, pressing his fingertips together. "I have Lord Taynset's confidence. He and I are in accord on these issues. If I were you, I'd accept that and move on. You'll be much happier once you do."

Vvnet glared murderously – and then, abruptly and without warning, laughed. "Oh…you have Lord Taynset's confidence, do you? Is that what you think? Hah!"

Perplexed and angered by her reaction, Sarristec narrowed his optics. "What do you mean by _that_?"

"Oh…oh nothing," she replied, laughter fading away, "Nothing little shooting star, nothing at all." She straightened. "I need some energon. Beam me when our friend from Tagan has finished his panic attack."

"But –"

She swept out, completely ignoring him. Sarristec glowered after her, fuming with the certainty that he had just been insulted, and completely at a loss to explain how.

* * *

><p><strong>Planetary News Feed<strong>

**Qosho Region Local**

**Cybertron**

"…_which brings the total number of robberies to twenty-seven. The Civic Guard has warned all merchants to take extra care when travelling outside city boundaries and to join protected convoys wherever possible. Unofficial sources have confirmed that the on-going investigations are increasingly focusing on suspected members of the Black Shadow, particularly those in a position to access travel plans logged with border control offices._

"_Planetary defence forces have finally neutralised the feral trac that rampaged through the Simfur residential districts yesterday. The trac, believed to be the result of illegal hybridisation and modification experiments, was cornered within the North Axial Interchange having previously escaped from the troops sent to capture it and the cultists responsible for its creation. We understand that it was Field Commander Megatron – former athlete and hero of the Kolidahl, Verinan and Tominidiac campaigns – who subdued the monster with a courageous single-handed attack at close range. The trac is now being taken for analysis at the Civic Guard containment facility on the Primon Flats._

"_The capture of the Simfur cultists was only the final act in a Qosho-wide operation to root out and detain those responsible for the destruction of the Mahlex Industrial District in Tarn. At this time, neither the Defence Directorate nor the Civic Guard has confirmed whether the perpetrators have been found; however it is known that a significant number of dissidents have been arrested._

"_We have just received this urgent newsflash: there has been a series of large explosions in the Simfur governmental districts. The blasts are believed to have originated in the sub-levels beneath or adjacent to several key buildings. Reports are coming in of riots breaking out across the city and of labourers clashing with security forces outside a number of energon distribution nodes. Power to many municipal systems has been cut and the main transport hub is in lock-down._

"_So far, the Simfur government has issued no comment. In fact it has just been confirmed that several key government officials have been sighted fleeing toward neighbouring Prodium. However, at least one of the escaping transports has been brought down by rioters and its fate is, at present, unknown._

"_The local Civic Guard divisions are visible on the streets, attempting, it seems, to bring the situation back under control. Given the rapidly escalating violence, however, it does not appear that they will be able to do so. Emirate Aetalon has petitioned the High Council and the Defence Directorate for a direct intervention – there is no news yet on how this request is being received, but given the Council's noted reluctance to use planetary defence forces at the state level –"_

_#External Visual Override: Authorisation Code – Raindance – cron-typtic-prima#_

"_Sorry to break in so abruptly everyone, but as you can see there has just been a startling development on the ground here in Simfur. Those aircraft you can see approaching the city-centre are heavy troop transports. And – yes, there! Those markings are the insignia of the Tarnian military elite, which haven't been seen outside their borders since the Telonix Conflicts in the stellar-cycles immediately following the Logical Revolution. At first, everyone assumed they were here to aid the Simfur administration however – woah!_

"_Sorry about that viewers, needed to move to safe flight path there. As you can see, rather than defending the current administration, the Tarnians actually seem to be firing on the Simfur security forces in defence of the rioters. This is an unprecedented development and will surely raise questions at the highest level – Primus jacked!_

_#Main Feed Reinitiated#_

"_Apologies for the break in transmission. We are working to re-establish our connection with the cameras in the vicinity. We will continue to broadcast reports from Simfur for as long as we are able, and our reporters in Iacon are currently attempting to get some indication of how the High Council is responding to the crisis._

"_Stay on this feed for all the latest developments."_

* * *

><p><strong>Rented Residential Pod<strong>

**Tagan**

**Cybertron**

Once you connected Konntryn's death to the destruction of the Mahlex district, everything began to make sense.

Diatrion's casework was thorough, precise and ultimately limited by the fact that he was a member of the Civic Guard. Take the mysterious package Konntryn had received immediately prior to his final, fatal journey. Aside from a rough upper limit on its size, Diatrion had been completely unable to work out just what had been delivered. None of the household servants seemed to know and the courier had vanished completely and utterly in the way that only those facing an imminent visit by the White n' Blues could manage. Consequently, he had focused on the front companies, trying to find incriminating evidence someone might have been able to use as leverage, rather than trying to guess from which, if any, of the functional businesses the delivery might have come. And even if he had followed that line of investigation, it was a fairly safe bet that he would have been deflected by any number of privacy and commercial security laws designed to safeguard the private sector from the prying eyes of tax inspectors, ethical review committees, and people conducting murder investigations.

But if Konntryn had been murdered by the same person who killed Vaseeltron, and Vaseeltron had been killed because of his connection to the Mahlex bombing, then it was likely Konntryn was dead for the same reason. If Konntryn was connected to the Mahlex bombing, the mysterious package was almost certainly connected to it as well. If the package had to be brought all the way from Praxus to Tagan, by soon-to-be-smashed hand, then it must have been a pretty important part of the plan. And if you were willing and able to hack into fifteen high technology research firms' central computers, you would find that one of the more minor companies in Konntryn's portfolio was in the process of developing sensor baffles for military use. Which was _exactly_ what you would need to plant a bomb in the most surveillance happy city on the planet.

So – Konntryn had somehow been coerced into using his connections to procure the stealth technology and had then been silenced to stop him blowing the plan wide open, double-crossing his 'partners' or otherwise getting in their way. Or just because they didn't like him much.

Which led to two big questions.

The first, obviously, was 'who had been able to make a perfectly disreputable high-grade layabout get involved with mass murder and catastrophic property destruction?' The second…well, the second was, 'why leave the body where it fell rather than burying it or knocking it into a smelting pool?'

Nightbeat had been trying to puzzle that one out since he had first learned of the case. With Vaseeltron, disposing of the body in any other way than leaving it to rust in a sensor blind-spot would have been nigh on impossible. But the Dead End in Tagan was so poorly monitored that you could have disassembled a dozen heavy haulers and built the remains into an attractive set of artistic chairs and no one would have noticed a thing. Therefore, there must have been another reason for not properly dealing with Konntryn. No time? A strong possibility. There were other pressures on a would-be bomber's time than security sweeps. Carelessness? A _useful_ possibility. And yet one that was at odds with the meticulous planning that must have gone into such a successful act of vandalism. Oh, yes, assuming excellent planning when something had actually relied on luck was a mistake, but fooling the Tarnian system was no easy task. It did not seem likely that mere fortune was responsible. Therefore, there must have been a valid reason for leaving the body in the Dead End.

Several possibilities. Not enough information to narrow them down. Therefore, the focus had to be on the first question. Determine the identity of whoever had been influencing Konntryn and follow the causal chains that branched from there. That was the next step.

And that meant a trip to Praxus.

* * *

><p><strong>Tarnian Governmental Feed<strong>

**Planet-wide Broadcast**

**Cybertron**

_Viilon's image peered down, optic wide. The deep purple of his armour made the yellow light look even brighter. "It has been requested that an explanation be given for the on-going military operation in Simfur. This broadcast will serve as that explanation._

"_At plus six hecta-cycles yesterday morning, Qosho time zone, Tarnian troops entered Simfur in order to assist the people of Simfur in removing the current government from power. Representatives of the revolutionary movement have been in contact with Tarnian officials for the past one point seven six quartex, petitioning for aid in their attempts to force regime change in their city. Two solar-cycles ago, the Tarnian government officially agreed to give that aid._

"_In the past, Tarn has attempted to help the people of Simfur by supplying fuel and other resources on the understanding that the Simfur government would work to improve conditions for the general populace. These improvements were sporadic and it is widely known that Simfur officials hoarded fuel at the expense of large sections of the working community. I had intended to enact a plan whereby fuel was delivered directly to the people of Simfur via tanker convoy, strengthening their position and allowing them to organise a viable alternative to the current administration. The destruction of the Mahlex Industrial District and the resulting impact on Tarn's fuel distribution network has rendered that plan inoperable._

"_With the loss of Tarnian fuel supplies, the Simfur government entered into talks with several cities willing to assist them. To the best of Tarn's knowledge, these talks were successful and fuel supplies were restored on an emergency basis. However, rather than ease the restrictions imposed following the initial disruption, the Simfur government opted to keep menial-grade fuel rations at ten percent less than the statutory minimum as laid down by the inter-state accords. As a consequence of this irrational act, the people of Simfur have chosen to dissolve their government and take direct control of the running of their city._

"_As during previous anti-government demonstrations, the Simfur security forces have reacted with excessive and openly lethal force. An estimated sixteen percent of Simfur's population has been killed or damaged to the point of stasis-lock. While the Civic Guard units currently on the ground have attempted to resolve the situation, they have proven unable to do so. For this reason, it has been concluded that the most appropriate course of action is for Tarn troops to protect the Simfur revolutionaries and neutralise those members of the security forces that chose to fire upon them._

"_The three divisions of Tarnian soldiers now in Simfur will remain at the disposal of the Simfur people for as long as they are required. The primary objective is the forestalling of any further violence and injury. The secondary objective is to assist in the removal of the current Simfur administration and the detention of their security forces. The tertiary objective is to prevent any hostile neighbouring state from attempting to take advantage of the situation to the detriment of the Simfur people._

"_Further statements will be given as the operation proceeds. It is requested that all discussion of this matter go through the High Council, as this is the most appropriate forum for the issue. No information will be given to the news feeds beyond that which is released in the official statements."_

_Viilon's image vanished, swirling out of focus to be replaced by the Tarnian flag._

* * *

><p><em>Transformers and all associated characters and ideas belong to Hasbro and are used here purely for entertainment purposes.<em>


	18. Foreign Affairs

**2.10: Foreign Affairs**

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

The ring of Council seats felt uncomfortably empty with only the three of them sitting there. It was, Xaaron thought, uncomfortably close to being a private court, a triumvirate of self-appointed arbitrators ready to dispense arbitrary justice. Even the Prime was absent, his throne looming empty behind them. There was just the three of them – Iacon, Nova Cronum and Vos.

And the one they were there to pass judgement upon.

"I formally request asylum," Aetalon said, a tremor in her voice, "on behalf of myself and the remaining members of the Simfur government." She looked from Traachon to Xaaron to Graviitus, eye widening and narrowing. "We fear for our lives if we do not find some protection from the malcontents who have instigated mob rule in our city. They will kill us if they get their hands on us."

Silence. The sort of silence you get when no one wants to be the first to speak.

Eventually, Traachon got to his feet. "You stand before us," he proclaimed tremulously, exuding every shred of regal disdain at his disposal, "the representative of a government that has persecuted and neglected its people in equal measure, driving them over the brink of rebellion – and you would have the people of Iacon shelter you from the vengeance of those you oppressed? Your request is refused absolutely. Iacon will not protect those who have turned their backs on the very foundations of Cybertronian civilisation."

He turned his back on Aetalon and walked away, his dignified contempt only slightly undermined by having to make a long loop around the chamber to get to the doors. Aetalon followed him with her eye, which flashed a furious orange. It faded back to its usual pale red as she turned back to the remaining Emirates. She said nothing, most likely because there really was nothing _to_ say.

Xaaron glanced sideways to see whether Graviitus was going to speak. He was not entirely surprised to see the jet staring fixedly ahead, mouth set into a grim, determined line. Vos, it seemed, was determined to have the last word. What a surprise.

"The parliament of Nova Cronum has already debated this issue," Xaaron said, standing and looking resignedly back to Aetalon, "and while we have no wish to see any further violence, it would be a contravention of our laws and traditions to interfere in another state's internal affairs. We are more than willing to help mediate discussions aimed at resolving the current situation peacefully – but we cannot and will not give implicit or explicit support to any of the parties involved. With regret, we decline your request."

Not that there really was that much real regret amongst the Nova Cronum parliament that the Simfur oligarchs were finally getting what many saw as their just comeuppance. What _did_ exist was a political regret that things had gotten out of hand so quickly – and that Tarn had been the one to seize the initiative and take advantage of resulting chaos. And, for his own part, Xaaron did not bear Aetalon personally any ill-will. She may have been the voice of an utterly corrupt government, but she had never struck him as a corrupt person. Privileged and complacent, absolutely, but not actively immoral. Whatever price she might rightly have to pay for being Simfur's spokesperson, she did not deserve to be ripped limb from limb by enraged workers.

She reacted to Xaaron's words with far less anger than she had to Traachon's. She must have guessed Nova Cronum's answer before she had asked the question, and even went so far as to murmur a polite acknowledgement of the refusal. In following the traditional practice of gathering together potential asylum providers and requesting their joint or individual protection, she would have given great thought to who was likely to accede to that request.

And ultimately there was only one city that would have been willing to consider taking them.

Graviitus stood up and opened his hands. "Vos deplores the cowardice displayed by Iacon and Nova Cronum on this matter. We may not agree with how Simfur has been run in the past but we will never condone violence and an abject disregard for the common laws that bind us all. If no one else will stand up for the rights afforded to all by the Inter-State Accords, it is left to Vos alone to do the right thing – the _moral_ thing – and protect those fleeing from Simfur until such time that a properly recognised authority can correctly determine the guilt and innocence of those involved. I hereby extend Vos' hospitality to those on whose behalf you make this _perfectly__reasonable_ request. While we can't grant you the privileges of visiting dignitaries, we will nonetheless make your stay in our city as comfortable as is proper. And we will most certainly not be pressured into changing our position by any state that wishes to control Simfur for its own ends."

It seemed a shame that the speech had an audience of only two. Xaaron doubted Lord Taynset himself could have given it better.

* * *

><p><strong>Lord Taynset's Chambers<strong>

**The Palace of Law**

**Vos  
>Cybertron<strong>

The fine powder sunk slowly through the high-grade, trails of red and blue in pink liquid so pale it was the colour of captive sunlight. A constellation of miniature stars blossomed and sparkled as the almost legal chemicals dissolved into the fuel, filling it with illusory fires.

Lord Taynset took the two crystal goblets from the serving table and passed one to Sarristec, raising his own in salute. Sarristec responded in kind and together, they took their first sips. The fuel mix slipped down like molten light, leaving a pleasant tingle as it reacted with the lining of their feed-tubes and stirred their self-repair systems. The pattern of reactions criss-crossed and looped back on itself, a pleasant web of corrosion and replenishment that combined with the surge of fresh power to produce a most delectable sensation.

Taynset smiled, and Sarristec dared to smile back. "An excellent distillation, my lord," he hazarded.

"I am glad to share it with you," Taynset replied, taking another sip, "Thanks to your efforts, we have been able to take full advantage of Tarn's most serendipitous misfortune." He indicated the cityscape visible through the massive windows. "Vos owes you much, my lord Sarristec."

Sarristec gave a modest little nod. "I owe Vos everything." He was careful to let some pride show, though, just enough that he need not fear looking ungrateful for the praise.

They stood for a little while, admiring the view and appreciating the fuel. However, concerned a prolonged silence might make him appear too passive, Sarristec lowered his drink and spoke up. "Forgive me for saying so, my lord, but you do not appear especially concerned by events in Simfur…" He hesitated, unsure whether or not this could be taken as implying that the First Lord was reacting in the wrong way.

"Should I be?" Taynset tilted his goblet slightly, stirring the liquid within. His optics flicked from the fuel to the skyline. "Tarn has sent troops to aid of a mob of violent malcontents who have succeeded only in dealing the death blow to a minor state's antiquated infrastructure. Even if Tarn establishes a whole garrison in Simfur, they will be expending resources on a lost cause." He made a little, on-the-other-hand gesture. "Meanwhile, thanks to your sterling efforts, we have established favourable energy contracts with Kalis, Dramor, Altihex, Prodium and most especially Tagan. We are in a position to move anything we like through the Tagan Heights, practically free of charge and with no questions asked. Viilon intends to outflank us. Let him try. We have already protected our supply lines and made good headway to cutting him off from every state misguided enough to come to his aid."

Taynset turned and smiled slightly. "You must understand, my Lord Sarristec, that not every action taken by the enemy needs to be countered on its own terms. Meeting like with like often plays straight into an opponents' hands. Viilon expects us to protest and to try and have his troops evicted. We will. We will even give shelter to those in Simfur with the wit to flee the consequences of their ineptitude. But we will not make the mistake of concentrating on this situation to the exclusion of our own strategies. It has always been my policy to cut Viilon's political support rather than his military backing. Tarn boasts the largest state-controlled army in the region, possibly on the planet. But without the support of neighbouring states, it can neither be supplied nor used to any great effect."

"And that is why we still have an Emirate on the High Council?" Sarristec suggested, thinking back to his early campaign platforms and the general anti-Council sentiment that always emerged at political rallies.

"Among other reasons," Taynset agreed, "The benefits of being able to stall other states' plans ultimately outweigh the inconvenience of having our own agendas disrupted. Besides, we must never be seen to be showing disrespect to the Prime. Let that honour be reserved for Viilon."

They shared a chuckle at that, and Sarristec felt pride swell once more in his processors. To be standing at the very pinnacle of his beloved Vos and to be sharing a joke with one of the most powerful mechs on the planet…it was a bigger kick than anything the fuel could have delivered.

* * *

><p><strong>Medical Bay<strong>

**Civic Guard Containment Facility Dega Maxos**

**Primon Flats**

**Cybertron**

"You really shouldn't have waited so long to get this seen to," the med-tech admonished, carefully disconnecting Megatron's left elbow, "You've only made the wound worse. It'll have to be completely replaced."

Ravage smiled to himself as he watched Megatron twitch with irritation. His commander had never coped well with being out of action, no matter how temporarily. Being patronised by doctors would only increase his annoyance.

"Just get on with it," Megatron growled, flexing his remaining functional hand.

The undertone of promised violence in the order wiped the disdainful look off the medic's face and he hurriedly set about removing the shattered forearm.

"Tell me – do you always have such reckless disregard for your own health?"

The question came from a tall green and gold mech with wheels slung across his chest and the elegant poise of one used to high society. He walked over to Megatron's repair bay and crossed his arms, gaze passing over the silver warrior's injuries.

"I do what needs to be done to _win_." Megatron did not deign to look up at the newcomer. "That is what a field commander is supposed to do."

"I'm sure your troops will appreciate your self-sacrifice when you leave them without leadership in the middle of a battle."

Megatron's right hand curled into a fist. "Do you want something? Or are you just here to question my tactical decisions."

"I would hardly consider deciding to launch oneself bodily at a monster capable of tearing an expressway apart with its bare hands, 'tactical'," the mech replied huffily, wheels shifting again.

"Vieuxuun…" Megatron paused, visibly forcing his fist to unclench. "I would…_advise_ you to get to the point."

"The beast has been secured," the green field commander said curtly, tapping his fingers against his arm.

"I know," Megatron snapped, "I made sure they did it properly."

"Indeed. Neglecting proper procedure concerning the treatment of your injuries in the process."

"Did you just come here to list my failings to adhere to _precise__protocol_?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact." The green soldier gave a dismissive wave. "Not your disregard for your own health. What concerns me is your conduct during the operation itself."

"My –" Megatron's face twisted. "What _exactly_ was wrong with my conduct?"

Vieuxuun's eyes narrowed. "Your choice of reinforcements. Rather than calling in all available combat units, you instead selected squads exclusively from within your battalion. You made the decision based not on sound tactical judgement but on a preferential attitude towards _your_ troops." He uncrossed his arms and pointed accusingly at Megatron. "This was supposed to be a joint operation, our two battalions acting as one. Instead, you restricted your options and, as a direct result, not enough troops were deployed, the situation spilled out of control and that creature was allowed to go on a rampage. A rampage that seems to have been the ignition point for a full scale uprising."

"Are you accusing me of _starting__the__Simfur__riots_?" There was a very dangerous undertone in that oh-so-quietly asked question. Megatron was on the very edge of losing his temper and Ravage could guess how that would end, missing arm or no missing arm.

"I am suggesting that your misjudgement was a contributing factor. You should have summoned squads from my battalion in addition to those from your own."

Megatron's fingers were clacking against one another now, such was the force with which his hand clenched and unclenched. "I called in troops I _knew_ could handle the situation. Bentwing's aerial unit, Optrion's squads, Turbo's cavaliers – I know those soldiers, I knew they were who I needed to deploy."

Vieuxuun was completely undeterred. "You had access to the full tactical readouts on all members of both battalions. Both Temoraal and Hevacce's squads would have been an asset to you in that situation and both were free to be redeployed. As was the unit of Air Guardians assigned to my forces. Ultimately, you didn't choose the mechs best suited to the battle – you chose those you _trusted_ to fight by your side."

Clack. Clack. Clack. Megatron's optics flashed crimson.

"I understand," Vieuxuun went on, as if oblivious to the anger that threatened to consume him, "You are a warrior of the frontier. You are used to relying on your battalion alone, on your own, unreinforced initiative. As a consequence, you hold those of us who do not fight out on the edge of known space in contempt. And in spite of what you may think, we _do_ fight, Megatron. My troops are as seasoned as yours. We have fought off raiders, pirates, even would-be invaders. More to the point, we have more experience fighting our own kind. That expertise was at your command and you chose to ignore it because you did not trust us. Given that, how am _I_ supposed to trust _you_?"

Clack. Clack. Clunk. Megatron said absolutely nothing. Forgotten by the two field commanders, the med-tech hovered nervously by the repair bay, a proto-matter dispenser held hesitantly at the ready.

Ravage, meanwhile, had determined four different ways in which Vieuxuun could be fatally disabled. The young field commander was nowhere near as heavily armoured as Megatron and he possessed reasonably limited in-built armaments. It would be a simple matter to rip into his vital components and disrupt his core consciousness before he could shunt it to safety. A sufficient energy charge delivered through physical contact with his major systems would send him offline and melt enough neural pathways to render his body uninhabitable. What was left of his spark would be shattered into incoherent code, scattered throughout dead processors.

Of course, they would have to kill the medic as well, but that would present no great difficulty. And Ravage was more than capable of hacking into the security systems – convince them that they had seen something else and there need be no evidence to suggest that either he or Megatron were involved. It could all be done quickly and cleanly, without fuss.

Although if Megatron gave in to the urge to rip Vieuxuun's chest open with his one remaining hand, it would be a lot harder to cover things up. Perhaps they could plead justified homicide…

Vieuxuun's posture shifted, just a little. Maybe he had finally realised how dangerously he was behaving. "I have the greatest respect for you as a soldier," he said quickly, "That is why I am raising these points directly rather than going over your head to complain. I hope that we can function together effectively. I must insist, however, that you acknowledge and respond to the issues I have just laid out."

Silence.

Then Megatron unclenched his fist. "You are partly correct," he allowed, "In the heat of battle, I responded as I would have fighting on an alien world. I will not accept that my decision was wrong. The riots would have happened if that thing had rampaged or not. Yes, more troops would have ended the battle sooner. But your Air Guardians would have been unable to manoeuvre at such close quarters and Temoraal's squad is composed almost exclusively of light artillery. I needed cavaliers, mechs used to fighting pitched battles on the move, and Bentwing's flyers, who know how to fly in confined spaces. I made the call and we _won_. But...I…admit I did not properly consider your troops' abilities at the time. I will not make that mistake again."

"Then I believe we can continue to work together," Vieuxuun said magnanimously, "I look forward to our next strategy briefing. Good day."

Ravage waited until the green mech was well and truly out of sight and the med-tech was busying himself with the reconstruction of Megatron's forearm before rising to speak to his commander. "Even after all this time, you still find ways to surprise me."

Megatron looked down at him. "What did you expect? That I'd get in to a raging argument with a fellow officer?"

"Frankly, yes. He insulted you."

The silver giant laughed, nearly causing the med-tech to lose control of the proto-matter feed. "He's not worth the effort. And he was right. We aren't on the frontier anymore."

"Perhaps not…" Ravage's claws flicked from their housings. "But to imply that you neglected your duty and triggered an uprising through carelessness…"

Just for a moment, Megatron's anger returned, vengeful red rushing back into his optics. It cleared almost at once though and he shook his head. "Only a fool would believe collateral damage could be completely avoided or intelligence reports would be perfect. I did my duty to the best of my ability and I delivered a bunch of anarchists and their pet monstrosity into the holding cells." He shrugged, making the med-tech start and scowl furiously. "What more should I have done?"

Torn Vieuxuun's insolent face free from its moorings, perhaps? Ravage gave a shrug of his own and settled back down on his haunches. "Your duty is all that anyone has the right to ask of you, commander."

Even if it was much more than many of them deserved.

* * *

><p><em>Transformers and all associated characters and ideas belong to Hasbro and are used here purely for entertainment purposes.<em>


	19. Night Scene

**2.11: Night Scene**

**Racetrack's Precision Bodywork**

**The East Merchant District**

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

They always said rain was unlucky.

It was very unusual for it to reach Praxus, or any of the northern Lakatera cities. Only once in a long while would the clouds rising above the Iron Sea travel so far. Most often, they would break over Polyhex or be driven west toward Kalis or Prodium. It was rare indeed for the wind to herd them up from the south and pile them menacingly in the sky over the East Ridge.

When it did, anyone sensible huddled inside. Even if the rain was light, it still caused disruption and discomfort, leaving roads slick and joints sodden. When it was heavy, travel in the open became near impossible and it was not uncommon for people to wind up in need of a medic. Some lost control on the expressways and ended up with their bumpers bumped. Some had to deal with short-circuiting systems, rust-rashes and a dozen other maladies that got inside you and wrecked you from within. Some…well, the worst storms had left memorials in their wake.

So rain was unlucky. Over time, that short hand for all the things it caused had mutated. It wasn't just, 'rain is unlucky because of the consequences,' it was, 'rain brings bad luck.'

Rain brings bad luck.

Aratron looked out at the clouds massing in the sky and quickly looked back at the fender he was supposed to be painting in lacquer. The feme on the work bench shifted on her axles, irritated at him for pausing, no matter how briefly. "Is this going to take much longer? I have things to do and I _don__'__t_ want to get wet."

"Sorry," he mumbled, twisting the applicator to the right setting for making the finishing touches, "I'm nearly done."

Completing the last layer, he switched off the spray and stepped back, giving his patient the space to transform. She stretched and lifted her arm, examining the rapidly drying fender. She hummed. "Well, it'll do." Then added, a little grudgingly, "Thanks." And, hurriedly beaming payment to the shop's account, she flipped back into car mode and rushed through the door, intent on beating the rain to the subways.

Aratron raised the applicator in wry salute to her rapidly vanishing back. It wasn't as if she was the first customer to barely acknowledge his existence. He busied himself cleaning the table and tools, clearing the decks for the next glitch with the money to waste on looking pretty. Which probably wasn't entirely fair on all the people who came in wanting minor but necessary modifications or dents popped out after a really good night out, but slag it – he was feeling miserable, so why the Pit should he be fair?

Raindrops started to ping off the ground outside. One of the nearest towers trembled, unfolding panels into giant fans to protect its access ways from the coming deluge. Passers-by sped up, glancing up nervously as they made for cover.

"Yeh should get going, lad." Racetrack came up to Aratron's side, putting an encouraging hand on his shoulder. "Ye've already stayed longer than ah can pay yeh fer."

"Yeah…sorry…it's just…" He trailed off uncomfortably.

"Dun be. Ah'm the one who shud be apologisin', not yuh." The purple speedster waved his free hand in an irritated gesture. "Yeh a damn good worker. Yeh deserve better pay…"

"But you can't afford to give me it," Aratron finished, "Look, I get it. I'll…I'll get by."

"An' as soon as things pick up agin, ah'm gonna make sure yeh wages go back to what they were – better'n what they were," Racetrack assured him emphatically, "Now get going a'fore the rain gets heavy!"

Aratron smiled ruefully and nodded. Rapping Racetrack's knuckles with his fist, he pulled free and transformed. Waiting only to flash his lights in response to his boss's half-cheery wave, he drove out into the deepening gloom.

* * *

><p><strong>Inner City<strong>

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

The city hunkered down to protect itself from the weather. Buildings reconfigured to create better drains. Expressways grew opalescent covers, tunnels of flexible glass many hix in length that came spiralling out of the lighting rings. The open-air plazas hurriedly stopped being open-air and withdrew underground.

The smart set began to move their parties indoors and everyone else was quick to follow their example.

Fat raindrops splatted unpleasantly against Aratron's hood as he accelerated, leaving behind oily smudges that quickly evaporated in the heat from his engine. He angled for the welcome cover of the underground streets, following a slip road that curved suddenly as it reshaped itself around the buildings shifting above and, just for a moment, he imagined he might be racing for the entranceway forever, the beckoning tunnel always just out of reach.

But then the road caught up with the subway and he shot inside without so much as a bump. Behind him, the drumbeat of the raindrops grew more and more insistent. The noise chased him in, only to become lost beneath the local din.

The underground rang with a thousand sets of wheels and another thousand sets of feet. The whine of hover-drives, the howl of thrusters and the background roar of dumb machinery fought to be heard over the simple thunder of bodies in motion. The air was thick with fumes and the stink of friction. People jostled against each other, everyone determined that their journey was the most important. Aratron was forced to constantly manoeuvre, weaving this way and that to keep from being batted into the walls.

Things were no better when he jumped to his feet and climbed up to the pedestrian level above. A burly heavy-loader nearly flattened him within the first few steps and he caught several dozen more dents and dings before he found the side-street he was looking for. It was that kind of place. You kept moving or you learned what it was like to be a road bump.

The side-street was thankfully clear of crowds, walking or otherwise. Light from a train rumbling overhead briefly showed a once-colourful set of shop fronts, their signs flickering infra-red messages at shoppers who weren't there. The ground was littered with cans and fragments of metal, and worryingly unidentifiable objects that could have been broken machines and could have been broken people. Aratron caught a quick movement at the far end, something small and panicked retreating deeper into the shadows. He didn't look too closely.

Only one of the doorways showed signs of recent use. There was less garbage in front of it and the signs around it were just that bit more vibrant. In letters that were just the wrong side of visible light, they proclaimed that this was the Helix Oilhouse, a licensed place of entertainment open throughout the night and serving a wide range of select fuel distillations and quality oils from across Cybertron.

Having seen them all before, Aratron barely glanced at the words and went straight inside. The oilhouse had low-level visible lights, just enough to show up the customer's colours and, perhaps more importantly, the colour of the what they were buying. The usual crowd weren't the flashy decal type, but they weren't about to spend hard-earned pay on second-rate fuel. It wasn't just the high-grades who liked to see a bit of sparkle in their beakers.

Shoving his way through the mass of labourers and technicians – and round the legs of a couple of haulers – Aratron made his way to the bar, signalling for attention from the nearest dispenser. It craned over and beamed him the night's menu. The stock changed daily now, mostly because of increasingly shaky supply lines. He picked out a quart of Detra-Morllon and a tube of Black Metix. The price made him hesitate for half a mirco-cycle but he paid anyway. It wasn't as if saving the money would make him feel any better.

Walking away from the bar, shoving the tube into his shoulder, he looked around for somewhere to drink his fuel in peace. The oil slowly flooded his joints as he moved, pulsing through his body, pleasantly thick. It flushed away the grit and grime of everyday exertion and by the time he spotted Gauun waving enthusiastically at him from a corner, he was feeling freer and more relaxed, if not exactly more cheerful.

"Wheels!" Gauun grabbed his free arm and practically dragged him down onto the bench. "What kept you? I've been sitting here for _ages_!" He lifted his arms, hunching his shoulders forward to show off the blue markings that had been plastered across them. "What d'you think of these? Pretty cool, huh? It's real cyrianate too! Got it done –"

Aratron slammed his fuel can onto the table between them. "Look, just...don't start, OK? Not tonight."

"Don't start what? Wheels?" Looking abruptly concerned, Gauun leant forward. "Hey, Wheels, what's wrong?"

He almost said nothing. Almost got up and left, right then and there. It was a stupid, angry impulse that he knew would have felt extremely good to give in to. But he didn't. He was tired and depressed and needed to whine to someone. Perhaps Gauun would even cheer him up. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Racetrack cut my pay again," he said gloomily, opening his fuel inlet and tipping in a couple of measures of the Detra-Morllon, "Had to. Power rates are up, metal costs are up, customers are down. Again."

"Mate..." Gauun clapped him on the shoulder. "Can't you find something else?"

"Like what? It's not as if any other bodyshop job would pay any better. And do I look like I'd make a good dock worker? Anyway, I'm not just going to walk out on Racetrack. He's been good to me."

"Yeah, but...look, if you need help, you come to me, OK? I've got another deal going through with a race team – proper athletes this time – they're budgets gone down too, but that's still mega-shanix for the likes of us, so I got in there as the cheap-but-brilliant alternative and, yeah, they think they're getting one over on me but I'm on to a fortune with it! So I'm gonna have money to spare and if you're gonna struggle then you gotta let me help you –"

"You want to help me?" Aratron interrupted, "You buy the next round and you help me forget about it." He shifted uncomfortably, shrugging off Gauun's hand. "I'll survive. Always have before, right?"

"Yeah...I guess so." For a moment, Gauun was at a loss for words. Just for a moment though. He quickly recovered and launched into a rambling account of his new project, seguing into praise for the aerodynamic properties of racers and how they provided such a unique base for decals. Aratron let it wash over him, the familiarity of his friend's over-enthusiasm doing something to carry him away from his everyday worries.

Gauun may have been a bit of an glitch but no one could ever accuse him of being bad company. He was one of those people who would get you into a conversation even if he had to carry on both sides of it himself. And he never skimped on the oil and fuel. That was pretty much the main reason he had always been hopeless with money. He never got it into his processors that not being paid meant putting off having a good time.

Despite not really wanting to do anything beyond sit and rust, Aratron was dragged into making sarcastic comments, picking apart dumb ideas and, inevitably, into a long, sprawling argument about the place of aesthetics in the modern industrial sector and how much it must cost to put the average professional gladiator back together again after the semi-finals. Somewhere along the line the two subjects had become mixed up – probably thanks to the growing pile of empty fuel cans spreading unstoppably across the table. Aratron found himself confused about whether Gauun was arguing for prettier smelting pools or for grudge matches to be held over cauldrons of lava. He quickly decided it didn't really matter and tipped another quart of energon into his mouth.

His optics wandered away from his friend, who was listing to the right at an increasingly disturbing angle, and across the oilhouse floor. The crowd had not thinned as the night wore on but it had changed shape – some parts more literally than others. In one corner, a bunch of technicians had taken to their computer block modes and arranged themselves into an unsteady tower that hummed with excited algorithms. In another, one of the haulers lay spark out in truck mode, panels twitching with the final after-effects of an overload.

The bar was still jammed with waiting customers, those newly arrived and those going back for the twentieth round. You could have taken a slice through that line and found one of every kind of mech. The sensible, quiet flyer patiently working his way through a whole dect of Tetra-Helix. The blue car, optics bright and wide, ranting inanely into the audio of a bored racer who looked to be on the brink of telling him where to shove it. The lanky loader with his tall glass of black oil, slowly draining it, savouring every drop. The squat tank knocking back can after can, shouting at the servers for more and more fuel. The avir sprawled across the bar, fluttering weakly. The quad jumping up and down, desperate to get some service.

So many people looking to fry away their troubles in a haze of shorting circuits and burning self-repair systems. Or feed their addictions. Or just have a good night out. That was the point of a cross-section of the city, wasn't it? All kinds of people, here for all kinds of reasons, drinking all sorts of things -

Gauun poked him. "You still in there?" He frowned, optics slightly out of focus. "You, uh, communing with Primus or something? Cos I don't wanta interrupt a religious experience cos I know how much fuel it'd take to get you back there - an I don't think that's safe - and you probably don't want to get all transcendental anyway cos - cos that's gotta be boring right? I mean, what d'the Circuit Masters do all day anyway? Sit around and look into the wells and think and stuff - gotta be boring."

"I don't want to go and be a Circuit Master," Aratron assured him, slowly and clearly.

"Thank the Primal Program! I couldn't stand it if I didn't have you to talk to. No one else listens to me!"

That wasn't true. Lots of people listened to him, if only because he didn't really give anyone any choice.

"Yeah, but you actually _listen_," Gauun went on, even though Aratron was sure he hadn't answered out loud, "You don't just put up with me."

"You're my friend," Aratron told him with a shrug, "That's what friends do."

Anything more that Gauun might have said to that was cut off by an angry yell from the bar. The grey racer had leapt up and was going for the blue mech, his hands digging into the car's yellow chest plate. His victim was still talking, apparently undeterred by the fact that his audience was trying to murder him. An instant later, he pivoted effortlessly and, _still_ talking, sent the racer sprawling into a rapidly clearing patch of floor.

Aratron tried to make out what the car was saying over the din of raised voices and clashing metal. Something about blackmail...? And...insider trading?

The racer sprang up and swung wildly, hitting three people who were just trying to get out of his way. The servers began to keen in alarm, their sensors and arms swinging about in panic. Ducking under his attacker's fists, the car wrapped one long arm around the racer's waist and whirled him round, the flailing legs driving the crowd even further back. Several people cried out. A loud murmur went up from near the door and a long gap opened, customers moving to the side as the hulking bouncer pulled himself free from the wall, his massive fists flexing hungrily.

The blue mech had, meanwhile, manoeuvred the racer into a head-lock and managed to pin his arms tightly behind his back. All the prisoner could do was fling his legs about in an attempt to break free. Helpless, he was dragged across the room, right into the path of the oncoming bouncer. Aratron couldn't quite make out what the security mech turned into but he would have put down good money that it was something large and unpleasant.

Going purely on size difference, there was no way the blue mech was going to get his captive to the door. He kept going all the same, tightening his grip as the racer tried to throw him off by transforming. Aratron winced in sympathy as armour plates jerked and battered against the car's hands – experience told him that it couldn't have been pleasant for either mech.

The bouncer loomed over them, demanding they stop their fight and leave before he was forced to rip them new exhausts. The car pointed out that they were leaving anyway and if the bouncer would kindly step aside – his exact words – he would be happy never to bother him or the establishment again, unless it was absolutely necessary or they were selling Novus Special Distillation for a tenth of the usual price. The bouncer growled and lifted a fist to hammer the car into the floor.

A brilliant flash of light blotted out everyone's vision. Aratron's quickly adjusted. The bouncer wasn't so lucky and, clutching at his face, he collapsed, probably suffering from sensor shock. The 'horns' on either side of the blue car's head rotated back to vertical, their tips glowing slightly with the heat of the photon charge. He smiled, gave a little bow to the crowd, and dragged his captive out of the door.

Aratron turned slowly back to Gauun, who was shaking his head vigorously in an effort to get his optics working properly again. They stared at each other dumbly. "What the ever-loving Pit just happened?" Gauun demanded, his optics finally snapping back to their normal yellow.

"I haven't slagging clue," his friend told him bluntly, reaching for a still half-full can, "But if you're still paying, I plan t' keep drinking like it never did."

Gauun thought about this for a micro-cycle. "Good plan," he concluded, reaching for a can of his own, "Didn't look like it was any of our business anyway. And speakin' of business, did I tell you how I got them to give up on this stupid idea of painting themselves in alien skin patterns...?"

* * *

><p><em>Transformers and all associated characters and ideas belong to Hasbro and are used here purely for entertainment purposes.<em>


	20. Confessions

**2.12: Confessions**

**The Underground**

**Inner City**

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

"This is how it's going to go. You are going to tell me everything. You are going to tell me what Konntryn was doing. You are going to tell me how you found out. You are going to tell me how much detail you got. You are going to tell me who you sold it to." Nightbeat shifted his balance, pressing his foot down ever so slightly harder. "And you are going to tell me _quickly_."

Almost as if it had been perfectly timed to underline his point (it was two micro-cycles late) a train hurtled past on the opposite track. The shock wave from its passing broke over the two of them, making the grey racer – better known to his friends/enemies/creditors as Hardrive – flinch and squirm. Nightbeat's foot was unrelenting. As were the heavy binders he had fastened around Hardrive's arms and legs.

The bound mech's struggles died away with the echoes of the train's engines. He stared up at his captor with wide blue optics. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

The predictability of the response brought out Nightbeat's sadistic tendencies. "Sure you don't," he growled, digging his heel in, "That's why you tried to attack me in the bar when I accused you of being a blackmailer in league with murderers. Look, I'm in a bit of a hurry here. I don't have time for the usual 'don't know what you mean officer' routines. And you –" He grinned. "You _really_ don't have time for it."

Hardive twisted his head in panic, trying to see how far off the next train was. It was hopeless. He was hanging out over the tracks just as they curved into a fairly sharp bend, meaning that there would be no way of seeing what was coming until it was practically on top of him. There was only the rumble of approaching machinery and the roar of the rain, scattered by the surrounding towers until they merged into a meaningless cacophony. Nothing to tell him how long he had left. Nothing to give him any grip on his situation.

He trembled on the edge of terror, fighting for some purchase on his situation. It slid through his fingers, leaving him with only one way out.

"Ok! Ok!" He practically screamed it. "He was scraping profit off his shareholders and feeding it into fake companies! He'd done his investors out of thousands! Hid it all in the stock-reports and the investment accounts! I do freelance work as an accountant – one of his stakeholders got suspicious – I did the work, said I'd found nothing and put the screw on that Elite glitch! I'd got everything! Transfer information, account details, the real profit figures! It wasn't hard – just needed to get past the bank's privacy walls. _They_ don't care what he does – did – they got all the money anyway, what did it matter where it came from? No one cared! Only mattered to him – what he'd lose if anyone had found out – it was easy! He was too scared to try and stop me!"

"That's nice." Nightbeat smiled. "What a blow for the oppressed. It must have given you an enormous sense of well-being."

"It made me fragging rich!" Hardrive shrieked venomously.

"Which someone else noticed."

He nodded frantically, as best he could while lying on his back, optics flashing blue to purple and back again. "Yes! Ok, yes! They did! I –"

His mouth snapped shut. For the briefest of moments, Nightbeat wondered if he had finally recovered enough of his presence of mind to try and bluff or brave his way off the tracks. But no. It was just another wave of terror, one that threatened to out-class an imminent crushing demise.

"Have you ever had to shunt your consciousness about while under extreme stress?" Nightbeat asked conversationally, tapping Hardrive's chest with his toes, "It's like trying to squeeze through a narrow pipe while it's being tossed from one side of the Iron Sea to the other. It's not actually impossible but one slip in your concentration and you've had it. How good's your concentration, by the way? They say receiving major damage while you're trying to shunt your spark about is actually worse than dying outright, because you get to feel yourself being shredded into disconnected code before the end. They say you can see your memories and feelings being ripped away until there's not enough left to hold you together and _poof_! You're gone. Not even enough left to join the Allspark. They say. I mean, you can't believe half of what _they_ say, can you? How would anybody know, anyway? Still...it can't be pleasant, whatever it feels like, can it?"

"I can't tell you!" Hardrive blurted out frantically, twisting futilely against the restraints, "I...look, please! I can't tell you!"

"Oh yes you can," Nightbeat admonished calmly, "And I thought we'd agreed you didn't have time to play the usual games, hmm...?"

The grey mech's jaw worked soundlessly for a few micro-cycles, optics flickering, expression shifting with fear, frustration and anger. Then, finally, he said something, so quietly that even Nightbeat's acute audios could not quite make it out.

He said nothing. Simply waited silently, looking down patiently and gently tapping his toes. Eventually, Hardrive repeated himself, slightly louder, just loud enough to be heard.

Nightbeat smiled.

Lifting his foot off Hardrive's chest and stepping back, he hauled the unfortunate blackmailer away from the tracks, setting him up on his behind. No sooner had he done so than a massive freight train thundered by, perfectly on time and going at full speed. Hardrive screamed, tried to jump up, and fell flat on his face.

Still smiling, his captor righted him again and then bent down to speak softly into his main audio-receptors. "Now, let's go over everything you told them and then, if you're good, I might show you how to get out of this city without anyone even knowing you're gone..."

* * *

><p><strong>Civic Guard Base<strong>

**Tagen**

**Cybertron**

"_Diatrion! Don't care what you're doing, this is important. Get to Praxus. Right now. Drive here on your own power if you have to, but get here. It's vital. I'm about to crack it all wide open and you're going to need to be here to see it. Especially because if you're not here, I'm probably going to be dead before I can solve it all properly. I mean, I know everything already but I'd really like to be the one who gets to go in and get the slaggers myself, rather than be the one who's slowly cooling corpse points the way to where they're hiding. I'm funny like that, what can I say? So, yes – get up here as fast as you can. Tell them it's official business, get a transfer, desert your post, whatever. Just. Get. Here. Now."_

Diatrion had no idea how Nightbeat had managed to get the message to the top of the morning's file stack. And, after viewing the low-resolution but extremely animated hologram a couple more times, he concluded that he really did not want to know.

It took rather longer for him to decide what to do about it.

The very fact that the commercial investigator had called for his help suggested that things were getting serious. As much as he hated to admit it – and he hated it a lot – there was a very real possibility that Nightbeat had lived up to his word and uncovered something important, even case-solving. Moreover, duty demanded that threats to citizens, supposed or proven, be investigated swiftly. If Nightbeat was in danger, the spirit of the law said that Diatrion owed him protection.

The letter of the law, however, had some fairly strict things to say about Civic Guardsmechs leaving their assigned positions to chase halfway round the planet on the say-so of private individuals. According to the regulations, he should alert the Praxian investigators and have them determine whether Nightbeat was really being threatened. They could then take the appropriate action. Which would probably be to place Nightbeat in protective custody – protection to and from whom, debatable – and thereby bring his investigation to a crashing halt.

Diatrion could already hear the long, winding protests and accusations of letting justice be crushed beneath blind reg-following.

He played the message through again, almost unconsciously noticing the transmission signature was that of a temporary housing block in Praxus' north sector. There was nothing in the data-structure to suggest that it had been bounced about in an effort to disguise its point of origin. There was nothing more than some standard private encryption to secure the contents. It had the look of something composed in a hurry, dashed off between following up leads with Nightbeat's signature verbosity.

Except that Diatrion couldn't quite believe that. He had studied up on Nightbeat after their...'meeting' and putting that together with his first-hand impressions, he doubted very much if the blue mech did anything in a hurry. Oh, he did everything _fast_. But that included thinking, planning, _acting_. A careless, rushed message did not fit with his records. It did not make sense.

The public channel. The imprecise content. The complete lack of specific information.

Nightbeat was sending a message and it was sure as scrap not meant for Diatrion. He was trying to bait someone into rash action, or else trying to manoeuvre them into revealing themselves. Diatrion just happened to be the most convincing recipient for the bait.

He wondered how much Nightbeat knew and whether he really believed that he needed help. Was the request for help genuine or was it just theatre? More importantly, could it be risked either way?

No. Of course it couldn't.

There was no response when he tried to call Nightbeat back. The channel had been blocked, naturally enough. There wasn't much point tying to force someone into the open and then giving them a way to contact you with anonymity. Nightbeat was, despite appearances, thorough.

Left with no choice, Diatrion went to see his commander.

* * *

><p><strong>Commander's Office<strong>

**Civic Guard Base**

**Tagen**

**Cybertron**

Tynllonn wasn't impressed, either with Nightbeat's communication or the way Diatrion had handled the commercial investigator's involvement. He gave a short, irritated speech about the importance of procedure and following the regulations when it came to classified information.

Diatrion did not bother to defend his actions. There was no way to defend them. His dereliction of duty was too obvious. He focused instead on pleading to be allowed to see the case through. If he could go to Praxus and find out what Nightbeat had uncovered, there was a chance it would lead to Konntryn's murderer. It was, he insisted, not something that could be ignored. Nightbeat's record spoke for itself when it came to his ability. Whatever his methods, if his investigation into the Tarn bombing intersected with the Konntryn case, they could not afford to ignore him.

At that, Tynllonn frowned, his already black mood darkening further. "You start drawing connections like that," he boomed, "you're going to start getting in over your pay-grade. I'll not have the Magnus coming down on us because you think you know better than the special investigation squad."

"I don't think I know better," Diatrion said, as measured as he could manage, "That's the point. I don't know. I don't know who killed Konntryn or why. The leads here are dead. If there's a chance Nightbeat _does_ know, we need to get to him before someone else does."

Tynllonn glared at him, optic strip burning green. "Konntryn, Konntryn – to the pit with Konntryn! You think this isn't going to go beyond one smashed body? Slag it, if there's even a hint of something political in this..."

Diatrion drew himself even further to attention. "With respect, commander, my job is to find out who's responsible for the one smashed body and bring them to justice." He didn't add, that's what the law requires of me. He had a feeling that if he did, any chance of getting to Praxus would die screaming.

As it was, Tynllonn's glare intensified, boring into his subordinate as if trying to make him back down by shear radiation pressure. When that didn't work, he threw up his arms and sat back in his seat.

"Fine." His voice had sunk to a bass growl. "You want to chase some insubordinate idiot-savant around the planet, you go right ahead and chase him. I'll grant you permission, pending the Praxian lot's approval. Shouldn't have any trouble there though," he added with a dismissive gesture, "They'll probably thank you for taking the responsibility. Which you are. All of it. You do this, the outcome's on you and this..._investigator_. I'll not lift one finger to get you out of the firing line if it comes to that."

Which was, Diatrion thought, an empty threat given that Tynllonn, as the senior officer, was the one the Magnus' office would look to if it came to 'that.' It occurred to him abruptly that his commander was taking a personal risk solely on the basis of Diatrion's judgement and he felt considerable gratitude towards the older mech, not to mention a good deal of vindication. "Thank you sir!" he said aloud, snapping off a parade-ground standard salute.

Tynllonn just glowered and pointed to the door. "If you're going, go. You don't want to hang around while someone moves in to smash up your lead."

* * *

><p><strong>'Red Comet' Temporary Housing Block<strong>

**North District**

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

Nightbeat was not an impatient mech. Least-ways, not a mech to whom patience was a great difficulty. If he knew what someone was going to do – and he invariably would, if he set his mind to it – he could out-wait the stars themselves in order to observe the fulfilment of his prediction.

The difficulty came when he was not certain of the outcome.

Someone would react to the message to Diatrion. Preferably Diatrion. Certainly someone else with more dangerous intentions. That was, as far as he and universe were concerned, immutable fact rooted in basic psychology and criminal sociology.

Except he did not know what that someone would be like.

There were many possibilities. The hired thug. The smooth-talking middle-mech. The professional assassin. Perhaps even someone actually important in the greater scheme of things. But he had very little means of narrowing those possibilities down. What-ifs pummelled him from all sides. Probabilities rose and fell with every scenario he constructed.

True uncertainty made him restless. Sitting and waiting become painful necessities.

He tried to distract himself by flipping through the entertainment nets. The Praxus ether was alive with competing channels, all screaming for attention. He skipped straight through the news, which was mainly concerned with the arguments raging within the Prime's Council following Tarn's not-so-subtle annexing of Simfur. That was all politics and politics was inherently boring, following as it did patterns of incomparable predictability. The sport was chiefly gladiatorial, mixed in with races from the tracks out west in the Prodium Trenches. Potentially interesting, if only the natural chaos in the games had been allowed to come through. Instead, it simmered under the surface, tied down tight by unrelenting constructs of theatricality and outside interests.

The purely entertainment shows were little better. Poetry following ancient schemes as staid and flat as any old ruin. Displays of art no more engaging for being rendered in electronic impulses. Especially the ones _meant_ to be viewed like that. Artists always screamed their intentions and meaning at their audience, for fear that someone might miss the nuances. That was more irritating than boring. Unmysterious things trying too hard to look like mysteries.

He settled, finally, on the fashion-casts. He had got as far as calculating the top-selling mods for the next cycle, determining that lime would be the new puce and identifying seven presenters who were overdosing on illegal circuit simulators when every network vanished and the lights went out.

More than out. Everything went completely dark. Every sense was muted. Only the pickling on his armour let him know his spark hadn't suddenly been ripped from his body. That, and the extremely low likelihood of his spark suddenly being ripped from his body.

Ah. The tingling gave it away. The faint tingle of negons sucking energy from his skin. A black light beam. In theory, an extremely corrosive particle stream, although no one had ever managed to properly weaponise it. Primarily useful because it completely absorbed all exposed photons within the targeted area, thereby rendering anyone caught in that area completely blind. It also severely impeded the progress of sound waves and played havoc with pressure sensors. Result: one severely disorientated victim.

That was the theory, anyway.

He just stood still and let the blackness engulf him and waited for it to fade again. The power requirements to maintain a black light beam were high and the emitters tended to collapse if you fired them for long periods of time. Simple mathematics meant that a beam large enough to totally engulf him would only last for about three point seven six cycles.

Three point seven four cycles later, the beam cut out. The lights in the habitation unit were really off, it turned out, along with every detectably power source in the room. It was not possible to scan beyond the room.

A slightly-built mech with red optics sat in the shadows that had swallowed the far corner. He was perched causally on the seat extruded from the walls, his features distorted by a complex scrambler field. It made it look almost as if he was caught in a beam of black light himself, albeit one that was fluctuating wildly. That was just an optical illusion though – the technologies were completely distinct.

"Hi," the intruder greeted him, his voice distorted but not enough to disguise its natural pleasantness, "Didn't startle you too much, did I?"

"Oh, no. I try not to be startled. It saves time." Nightbeat smiled winningly. "For example, I know why you're here, so you don't have to spell it out for me or anything."

"Don't I now?" The mech shifted slightly, his crazy cloak fluttering about him. "I did hear you were good at your job."

"Oh, I am. So you've heard of me? Good! You tell me who you are and we'll have got through the pointless bits of this conversation in record time!"

The mech in the corner shifted again. There was a _thunk_ from inside his scrambler field and something came out, rolling across the floor to stop against Nightbeat's toe. He looked down. Hardrive's dead optics looked back at him, the face that contained them frozen in a horrified grimace.

"Me?" the mech said, "I'm the Black Shadow.

* * *

><p><em>Transformers and all associated characters and ideas belong to Hasbro and are used here purely for entertainment purposes.<em>


	21. The Brink of Victory

**2.13: The Brink of Victory**

**Emirate Xaaron's Suite**

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

"We are acting in good faith and with all due deference to the Inter-State Accords. We haven't done anything wrong in offering our assistance to the people of Simfur, and I am getting tired of repeating this." Haccano's face-plates shifted in annoyance and he thumped the edge of Xaaron's desk for emphasis. "I would have thought that protecting innocent civilians would be something even the Council could agree on."

"And if the Council was convinced that that was what Tarn was doing, they probably would." Xaaron shrugged. "Would you accept troops in Simfur if it was Vos putting them there?"

Annoyance became anger. "That is an unjustified comparison. Vos' unscrupulousness has been more than adequately demonstrated by its response to the Mahlex disaster. We, on the other hand, have never behaved with anything less than total honesty with our neighbours."

"I know. That's what's so worrying." Resting his chin on folded hands, Xaaron frowned thoughtfully. "You must understand that doing this will only aggravate your relations with Vos. And I find it hard to believe that is what you really want."

"We have never been the aggressor!" Haccano drove a fist into an open palm. "Vos has tried to undermine Tarn since we were established as a city-state. They have only intensified their efforts now that the Logical Revolution has proven a success."

"And Vos would argue that Tarn is overtly threatening their borders with its extravagant military investment, that its obsessive monitoring of its citizens is the sign of a dangerously oppressive autocracy, and that by moving troops into Simfur it has simply revealed the expansionism that lies at the heart of Viilon's regime. I suspect everyone on the Council knows this argument by rote – look, I did not ask you hear so we could exchange official rants."

With a gesture, Xaaron cut his desk's recording system, then made a show of closing down his in-built third-party recorders. He looked pointedly at Haacono. The big Tarnian scowled, then shut off his own documentation units. They stared at each other in silence for a moment.

"Where is this all going to end, Haacano?" Xaaron asked, optics dimming a little.

"With Vos as a smoking ruin, if I had any say in it."

"I don't mean the feud. I meant Simfur. Are you honestly telling me those soldiers are _just_ there to keep the peace?"

Haccano tilted his head to the side. "They asked for our help, Xaaron. No one else would have listened to them. You think the Prime's Council would ever have agreed to deploy Defence Directorate forces inside a city-state, no matter how wretched? If we hadn't gone in, when we did, thousands more would be dead."

"And now you have gone in, it's just possible that their lives will be ruined anyway." Xaaron hissed in exasperation. "I cannot believe that Viilon would do this out of the goodness of his spark, and neither can anyone else. Is he deliberately trying to provoke his neighbours?"

"I..." Haacano paused, caught between defensiveness and reassurance. "He would never act without good reason."

"No doubt he sees securing territory to bolster Tarn's borders following the damage to its economic superiority as a good reason to launch a military occupation."

"It is not a military occupation!"

"Haacano, there are armed Tarnian troops on the streets of Simfur, carrying out arrests and disabling anyone who causes trouble."

"On behalf of the new Simfur government!"

"A government being heavily 'advised' by Tarnian commanders."

"Damnit – we are not being underhanded about this!"

"No. That's the point. You're doing it openly and without fear of the consequences. And as a result, you are making a lot of people extremely nervous. What are you planning for Simfur? Are you going to stop there? Will you go after the other cities that are now taking their fuel from Vos, not you?"

Making a sound of incoherent fury, Haacano began to rise from his seat, fists clenched. "These are baseless accusations! How dare you use a private conversation to perpetuate Vosian lies in front of me!"

"Sit down." Xaaron's tone was so authoritative that Haacano obeyed before he had time to think about it. "Whether you like it or not, these are very real concerns for the rest of us. If the accusations are baseless, we must see proof of Tarn's good intentions. And if this sounds like I'm patronising you, that is simply because I am astounded that you haven't produced that proof already."

When Haacano showed no inclination to respond, Xaaron went on, "You must see how reckless this is. The Allspark knows I am the last person to say that the Logical Revolution was, in itself, a bad thing. I was Tarnian before I joined the Defence Directorate, I know how bad it was. But that cannot excuse some of the things Viilon has done. Never mind the moral issues – he scares people, Haacano. Say what you will about the Vosians but at least they attempt to be diplomatic before the act. Viilon simply acts and then, perhaps, will explain himself – if he deems it necessary. He purposefully quashes any real indication of what he will do next. That is terrifying for the rest of us. And it is a hideously dangerous way to behave when your city has a record of disruption and aggressiveness that makes the riots in Simfur look like a slightly excited party."

He thought, for a moment, that he would evoke as little response as before. Then Haacano gave a bass hum and let his hands fall open. "Tarn has existed since ancient times," he said softly, "and Viilon's government has existed for but a few hundred stellar-cycles. The past overshadows us, Xaaron, at every turn. The Vosians call us warmongers and you all half-believe them because the Tarnians have _always_ been aggressively territorial. Viilon saves us from ourselves and you call him a tyrant. You demand proof of our good intentions then give us no time to prove them." The thickset tank looked up and shook his head sadly. "Do you want reassurance? Do you want me to reassure the High Council, the people of Cybertron, the Prime himself that Tarn's intentions are honourable and that our troops are in Simfur to _help_ its people? Because I don't think I can do that. I'm not sure it is possible for a Tarnian to ever reassure the outside world that his city is not the monster you think it is." Still looking sorrowful, he got to his feet and shrugged. "You want something that is impossible to give."

Xaaron regarded him over steepled fingers. "I fear, Haacano, you are going to have to find a way to make it possible."

The tank shrugged again. "We do not _have_ to do anything. Perhaps it is time for the rest of you to start accepting that."

"Perhaps..." Xaaron smiled ruefully and rose to show his guest out. "Perhaps. But if you don't mind, I'll let you be the one to put that to the Council."

* * *

><p><strong>'Red Comet' Temporary Housing Block<strong>

**North District**

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

Nightbeat held Hardrive's empty gaze for two micro-cycles. He wondered how much of the blackmailer remained intact, frozen powerless and dead within the severed head. Had he been able to shunt his consciousness to safety in the moments before the blow had been struck? Doubtful. Still, like most civilians, he had probably kept himself mostly inside his head, most of the time. It was the natural way to maximise the speed at which you could process your optical feeds, and something they trained you out of when you joined the forces, civic or military (being in your chest most of the time meant that decapitation was less likely to take you out of a fight). It was just possible that enough remained inside what was left of Hardrive to have him rebuilt with maybe only some minor memory loss, or an inability to turn left in low light or something else inconvenient but non-life destroying. And there were patches for that kind of damage.

Nightbeat looked up and met the red optics of the mech opposite and knew that Hardrive was not going to be coming back, not with all the patches in the world.

He shrugged expansively and batted the head away with a foot. "I only said I'd get him out of the city. And aren't you a little small to be a global criminal brotherhood?"

Behind his sensor baffles, 'The Black Shadow' seemed to smile. "To you, I'm the Black Shadow. All of it. When I speak, we all speak."

"A spokesmech?"

"A voice. And anyway." A gun barrel extended through the distortion field, silver and ugly. "I'm the only bit of the Black Shadow you need to worry about right now."

Nightbeat tilted his head to the side and smiled back. "What do you want?"

"You're the investigator, you tell me."

"People usually find it annoying when I'm insufferably clever."

"I'm willing to be impressed."

"Oh, well, in that case – you're obviously here to find out what I know and then to kill me to prevent me telling anyone else – but only after I've told you who I've already told so you can go and kill them to stop them telling anyone else and if I play this right I can probably get you hunted down on a charge of attempting to murder the entire population of Praxus, but I won't because I think that anyone who can get a black light projector installed in my room without me noticing is probably extremely clever. Especially since it was a black light projector not a bomb. You're cautious and not willing to just blow me up when that could be both evidence I was on to something and a real problem for you if I had somehow managed to get what I know past your surveillance."

"Plus which, you as good as asked me to come," the red-eyed mech added patiently.

"Plus which I as good as asked you to come," Nigthbeat agreed cheerfully, "But I thought that was too obvious to be worth mentioning. Similarly, you know who blew up the Mahlex district, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Are you going to tell me?"

"Would it make you tell me what I want to know?"

"I doubt it."

"Then I'm just going to start shooting you until you tell me how you found out about Hardrive."

Crossing his arms, Nightbeat paced to and fro for a moment. "You really need me to spell that out? I'd have thought it was obvious."

"Let's pretend I'm stupid."

"You don't want me to do that. I don't like stupid people." He stopped and hummed. "I just hacked into Konntryn's files and found out who'd been in there before. Not exactly awesomely complicated."

"Those files were locked behind a premium grade firewall and a Civic Guard lock-out after the murder."

"I'm very clever and standards are dropping all over the place."

The red optics dimmed and then brightened, the gun never wavering. "That's kind of disappointing. Like cheating."

"So what? You'd have done exactly the same. If you'd had to."

"If I'd not known who did it before, you mean?"

"Obviously. I'm assuming one of the local Black Shadows has decided that usual operating procedures are getting in the way of a little profit on the side?"

"Why would you think that?"

"Because Hardrive said the Black Shadow had made him hand over the dirt on Konntryn and the Black Shadow doesn't do terrorism."

"Why do you think they were really one of us?"

"Because you're here and I haven't found a body conveniently stripped of anything that could connect it to you. You're worried enough to come here and kill me rather than just point me where you want me to go."

"Perhaps we think you're clever too."

"Perhaps you do but that's no reason to not just hand me the culprit and let me take them to Tarn. You'd only act like this if the culprit actually was Black Shadow. Also – you'd have to be insane to pretend you were Black Shadow when you weren't. You might as well just jump in a smelting pool and be done with it."

The voice of the Black Shadow nodded sagely – at least, that was what it looked like. "You're right about us not doing terrorism, too. It's not smart."

Not in comparison to murdering people for their wealth, stealing from honest (ish) merchants and making life miserable for anyone who gets in your way, you mean? Nightbeat kept the obvious sarcastic retort in the privacy of his thoughts. Antagonising this mech would not help.

Out loud, he said, "Of course not. People don't excuse obvious mass-murder. No one really cares if the First Covenant gets broken in private but doing it in public is just plain bad taste. The Black Shadow sticks to theft and generic violence, it's just a menace. It starts taking money to commit acts of grand destruction of life and property, it becomes something to be hunted down and crushed."

"It's easier when no one cares," the Black Shadow confirmed casually.

"Which means when you're done with me, you're going to make one or two of your brothers vanish."

"Something like that."

"Right, well before you get on with that, can I point out a mistake you're making?"

The gun moved, ever so slightly. "I didn't shoot you three cycles ago?"

Nightbeat's expression remained very, very neutral. "No. I mean that you didn't ask me what the box on the wall is."

He did not, even slightly, make any move to point towards the hand-sized, dull grey cube clamped to one of the artistically bare support pillars. All the same, he could tell – just about – that the Black Shadow's gaze had momentarily flickered away from him and towards the cube.

"What is it?"

"A Tarnian military communicator. Specially adapted for long-range reconnaissance. It compresses reports into pico-cycle long bursts and transmits them to high-orbit satellites under the cover of the usual fluctuations in the local power grids. I used it a little while before you arrived to send my latest findings direct to Viilon. He knows all about your involvement."

The Black Shadow was nonplussed by this revelation. "So what? He still won't know who actually blew up his city, will he? Or have you been trying to fool me?"

"Wouldn't dare," Nightbeat answered quickly and accurately, "No, you're right. He won't know precisely. But he knows the Black Shadow was involved."

The mech with the red optics actually laughed at that. "Oh, yeah, that's a real big mistake. Because we're _so_ scared that Tarn might know it was someone saying they were us who hurt them."

"Who's talking about Tarn? I'm talking about _Viilon_." Nightbeat paused, as if to try and gather his thoughts for some great effort of explanation. It gave him enough time to see if the Black Shadow would work it out for himself. He didn't. Which was a pity, since he had seemed so intelligent.

"Do you know what they called Viilon when he was in the military – before he took it into his head to depose the old warlords and rebuild Tarn along scientific lines, I mean. Do you know what his nickname was? No? They called him _Shockwave_." There was no reply but it was just possible, behind all the distortion, that the Black Shadow was looking interested. Encouraged that he was not likely to be shot immediately, Nightbeat went on. "They called him that because once he decided you needed to go down, it was as if the bomb that killed you had already gone off. If he came after you, he would not stop, deviate or turn back until you had been dealt with."

"Oh, I get it. I kill you and I get hunted down by a one-eyed glitch who doesn't know when to give up, is that it?"

Nightbeat shook his head vigorously. "No. You kill me, Viilon decides he doesn't have time to play games any more and he takes the Black Shadow apart piece by piece until he finds out what he wants to know. He might be logical but he can't afford to be patient when there's someone out there willing and able to strike against him. I was the tactful option. The tactical option will involve Tarnian crack troops hunting all of you down and ripping information from what's left of your higher processors." He jerked a thumb at Hardrive's head, lying forgotten by the door. "If you're lucky, when they're finished, there'll be about enough left of you as there is of him."

Silence. The Black Shadow's optics narrowed. Then, "You're not exactly scaring me, here."

Nightbeat twitched, desperate to pace and wave his arms about, frustrated that he could not drive the point home with more theatre. "No, but it's making you hesitate because you know I'm right, or that, at the very least, it's something you should consider before shooting me to death. Are you really willing to risk the destruction of your brotherhood just to make a particularly brilliant and infuriating commercial sneak shut up?"

After an eternity measuring precisely one and three eighth cycles, the Black Shadow cocked his chin and let the barrel of his gun slip ever so slightly off target. "So what? What am I supposed to do instead of killing you?"

The investigator grinned, widely and in triumph. "I was starting to think you'd never ask..."

* * *

><p><strong>Train Dock Five<strong>

**North District**

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

Diatrion rolled off the train with his mind full of worst-case scenarios. Really, he had thought of pretty much nothing else throughout the trip, excepting reviewing his case notes over and over again and logging the usual travel permits with border control. Would he find Nightbeat's broken body lying in an alley in the Praxus Underground? His corpse, smashed to bits in a Dead End and stripped clean by ravenous Empties? His head, neatly planted on a spike outside the Civic Guard base? The molten remains of his chaises dredged out of the local smelting pits? Or would he just not find him at all? Would the investigator have simply vanished, never to be seen again?

As was inevitable, Nightbeat was waiting on the platform, perfectly intact, with his engine revving impatiently.

"About time too! I was about to think I'd have to start without you!"

Diatrion – who was, even in truck mode, easily as big again as the other mech – parked himself squarely across the blue car's path. "Start what?"

"To act on information received, of course! Come on! We need to move quickly!"

"Why?" Diatrion asked with practised infinite patience.

"Because," Nightbeat snapped, speaking so fast he was in danger of breaking the sound barrier, "if we don't the murderers will get away, we'll miss the chance to solve the destruction of the Mahlex District and the Black Shadow will hunt down and kill me because I didn't save them from Viilon's perfectly logical wrath. None of these would be good, so can we please just _HURRY_."

Several responses ran through Diatrion's processors, mingling with genuine relief that Nightbeat had both stayed alive and managed to get somewhere with his investigations, and instinctive suspicion about the validity of his claims. What exactly had he found out? Who were the murderers (murderers, plural)? Where on Cybertron did the Black Shadow come into anything?

But the urgency in Nightbeat's voice was impossible to ignore. And Diatrion had not come all that way to ruin everything at the last moment.

"All right," he said, reversing smoothly to allow Nightbeat to get out, "You can explain on the way."

* * *

><p><em>Transformers and all associated characters and ideas belong to Hasbro and are used here purely for entertainment purposes.<em>


	22. Case Closed

**2.14: Case Closed**

**Sub Level Warehouse Sixty-Seven**

**South Merchant District**

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

The warehouse was, like any warehouse, a maze of stacked crates and containers. Plunging down through the district's sub structure, it resembled more than anything else a city in miniature, with streets and towers and platforms spread across a hundred different levels, most of them in darkness. The sheer volume and variety of materials held there made it impossible to scan properly, and searching manually would have taken days.

As Nightbeat had made clear with excruciating thoroughness on the drive over, they did not have days.

"_We should have called in the Praxus Guardsmechs,"_ Diatrion insisted for the third time as he moved cautiously along the surface-level gantries. He had his gun drawn but uncharged. That would delay firing by several micro-cycles, but would hopefully also help prevent their targets detecting him before he was in position.

"_We could also have had the Lor-Galun Choir announce our arrival with a full __ceremonial __chant,__"_ Nightbeat beamed from somewhere on the other side of the chamber. He had produced his own gun when they arrived, a bulky weapon that looked far more dangerous than it actually was.

"_Two of us can't cover every exit in this place,"_ Diatrion shot back.

_"We don't have to, we just have to cover the exit _they _go for."_

"_Which you can 'extrapolate' already, naturally."_

There was a pause. Diatrion slipped on to a staircase, climbing cautiously down to the next level. Then Nightbeat's voice sounded in his head again.

"_That's the first time I've heard you being sarcastic, investigator. Congratulations on actually being capable of it."_

"_Only when I'm walking into a potentially fatal situation. Do you actually have any idea where they are?"_

"_Plenty of ideas. I downloaded the schematics for this place before I went to the station to collect you. There are seven potential proper hiding places here – hiding places they'd chose if they were smart, I mean, which given everything they've achieved up to now is a safe assumption."_

Only seven. Assuming that Nightbeat was correct. Which given everything he had achieved...still remained to be seen. Even now, Diatrion did not – could not – share Nightbeat's complete faith in his own abilities. His training made him recoil from the idea of blind trust. And when you got right down to it, he could not verify Nightbeat's tale about the Black Shadow mech or the deal to take down the killers. It could just be a figment of an over-active imagination, a fantasy generated by processors driven past the edge of sanity.

Unfortunately, given that they were potentially dealing with members of an organisation responsible for world-wide criminal activity and the deaths of numerous agents of law and order, the only choice was to proceed as if everything Nightbeat had told him was true.

"_Show me these hiding places."_ A map of the warehouse flashed into his mind, sections buried deep within the labyrinth highlighted. Route indicators snaked through the structure, complex paths that looked designed to confuse pursuit but could just have been the result of the distribution of the crates. At a quick estimate, it would take them at least six deca-cycles to cover all of them.

Which could easily be too long.

Diatrion began to make his way across to the next ladder. _"Let's get to work."_

* * *

><p>It took them less then two deca-cycles to cover four of the potential hiding places. Which was not to say that there weren't a lot more than seven <em>possible<em> hiding places. It was simply that those seven were the best, given the basic factors that determined a good bolt-hole. How likely was it that their quarry had thought it through that well? They must have been worried, otherwise why make a run for a warehouse on the edge of the city with easy access to some of the less well-travelled sub-surface routes? But they had not yet tried to leave the city, which suggested they had enough presence of mind to realise that rushing into that would be stupid. Perhaps they were counting on the Black Shadow clearing up the trail before closing in on the traitors. Perhaps they simply hadn't worked out where to go next. Had coming to this particular warehouse been planned (having an escape route ready was consistent with their previous actions)? Or had it been a panicked decision caused by the fear of discovery (as the ease with which the Black Shadow had found them might suggest)? Would they have headed for the deepest, darkest part of the warehouse, or to the most easily defended section? Would they want to be close to one exit, or equidistant from several alternatives?

Nightbeat decided it would be best not to share his constant re-evaluation of the possibilities with his erstwhile brother-in-arms. Diatrion was the kind of mech who liked to have a definite aim. Constantly shifting the endpoint would be unfair. Better to work through the options and be ready to definitively change the goal if more information became available.

Information like a camouflaged motion sensor hidden at the top of a large stack of coolant barrels.

He stopped mid-stride, just outside its range. _Got __them_.

As delicately as only a trained professional who had then gone far beyond what the training program had considered legal teaching could, he began to probe the sensor from a distance, searching carefully for the paths along which the device was linked to its controller.

"_Motion __sensor.__"_ Diatrion's message came in at a few points above the lowest possible transmission strength.

"_Ditto,"_ Nightbeat acknowledged, gently taking a small baffle-pack from his forearm, _"Can you deal with it?"_

"_Already done."_

Smiling, Nightbeat flipped the baffle-pack towards the stack of crates. The alarm went off at once – and the pack, set to broadcast on the same channel, cancelled the signal, fried the sensor and began sending false readings back to the master controller. _"Ditto,"_ he repeated, stepping experimentally forward. Satisfied he had not missed anything, he moved past the crates. _"Good job we're dealing with amateurs."_

"_We're dealing with dangerous criminals who laid waste to a major industrial centre without getting caught."_

"_I didn't say they weren't gifted amateurs. And they did get caught. By us."_

"_Not yet. Watch out for paired sensors."_

He refrained from rising to the implication of a lack of common sense. The guardsmech was probably just being thorough.

At the final count, Nightbeat deactivated seven motion sensors, three tremblers and a sonic-detector web. The last took seven baffle-packs to properly shut down and the complexity of the defence suggested that he at least was getting close. A couple of cycles later, Diatrion reported having dealt with a similar set-up on the other side of the platform.

They were getting _very_ close.

The targets were holed up in a clear area between towers of crates and pallets that had been arranged to provide maximum cover. While their energy signatures were just clear enough at close range to reveal their location, it was impossible to get a clear shot at them. Diatrion hunkered down, vision darkening a little as he cut in his remaining stealth systems. A quick assessment suggested that there were two of them, one of average size and output, the other much bigger.

"_I can see them,"_ Nightbeat called across, _"Big red mech, someone smaller and greenish bluish."_

"_Do you see anything more useful than what colour they are?"_

"_They're talking. Just audible, probably don't have decent tight-beam comms."_

Slowly and silently, Diatrion crept closer until he too could just make out what was being said. It sounded like a disagreement, but one that was only just starting up properly.

"...given it enough time," one voice was saying, "Let's get out of here now."

"Forget it," rumbled the other, "We stay here until we're sure there's no one coming to help, _then_ we get ourselves out. I'm not arguing about this."

"The slagger's double-crossed us. Least-ways he's not gonna help us. He's paid us already, he don't owe us anything."

"He's gonna do what we tell him to. Not got the bearings to risk it. He'll send someone."

"You're wrong." There was a resigned note in the second voice. "We'd get the blame, not him. He's well out of it."

"_Someone else is involved."_

"_We knew that."_ Nightbeat managed to convey exasperation even in that brief message.

"_We should wait to see if they show up before doing anything."_

"_They're not coming."_

"_You can't know that."_

"_Weren't you listening? He's right, there's no way their employer is going to help them out when he's paid them off. It's in his interests to leave them to get slagged."_

"Doesn't matter even if they do find us before we get out," Voice Two was saying, "They can't hurt us."

"So you say."

"So I _know_. Look, we tested it. Anyway, we give it five more cycles then we boost out of here, fine?"

"Not soon enough."

"It's as soon as your getting. 'Less you wanna go without me, o' course?"

"Smelt that!" This was followed by a harsh sound that Diatrion finally recognised as laughter. "You don't lose me that easy."

"_Five cycles is too long to wait."_

"_Yes,__"_ Diatrion agreed reluctantly. Even with stealth systems, the chances of being detected were rising all the time. All it would take was a nervous diagnostic on the baffled sensors or a suspicious second glance towards an odd shape in the background radiation.

Nightbeat's voice hissed across the ether, barely a whisper. _"How do you want to handle this?"_

Diatrion answered without hesitation. _"The proper way." _And, charging his gun, he stood up.

* * *

><p>Nightbeat knew at once that he should not have asked, just stated a course of action. It was an old reflex, involuntarily acknowledging the niceties of working as part of a group. He had given in to it purely because Diatrion believed in doing things properly and when you were about to charge into battle with someone, it was important to keep them on your side.<p>

He had just not expected the guardsmech to do something so properly idiotic as step out into the open and try to arrest two (ex) members of the Black Shadow single-handedly.

"Stand where you are. By the authority of the Inter-state Accords, I am taking you into custody on suspicion of involvement in the murder of Konn Mech Tryn, of involvement in the Mahlex District bombing and of trespassing on private property. Please come quietly or I will take appropriate action."

Dreading what he would see, Nightbeat moved a little further out of cover, so that he had a better view into Red and Green's sanctuary. They were standing together, their backs to him, staring at the white and blue figure that had just manifested in front of them. The good investigator, radiating official empowerment, covered them with his standard-issue hand-gun.

Perhaps stunned by the sudden appearance of the full majesty of the law, they were slow to react. Then Red took a step forward, a wall of armour and pistons with hands like trash-compactors.

Diatrion did not hesitate. He fired, sending a volley of bright energy bolts to stab through the towering mech's skin and blast his systems into stasis-lock.

There was a sharp crackle of power and the energy splattered against the air, not even close to striking its target. Diatrion's optics widened, ever so slightly.

"Earthquake," growled Green in voice one, pointing a judgemental finger, "Smash him."

The red mech charged, accelerating incredibly quickly. Nightbeat saw Diatrion fling himself aside and then both mechs disappeared in a tremendous crash and an avalanche of tumbling crates.

Stupid, slagging, rule-following, lead-footed moron! Short-sighted, badly-tuned, iron-headed idiot! Rust-for-processor, shiny-armoured, thoughtless great –

Diatrion's voice cut across Nightbeat's mental ranting, sharp, clear and calm. _"Deal with that force-field generator while I keep the big one out of your –"_ The message cut off as a hollow boom echoed around the warehouse. Some way away, another pile of containers came crashing down.

Oh, yes, because the shape of the force-field and the speed with which it had sprung up suggested automatic deployment from a stand-alone unit, rather than an in-built projector – and there hadn't been any disturbance in the mechs' energy signatures either, so almost definitely an external device programmed to detect and intercept incoming fire, which would mean only limited self-repair capacity and an emitter that could not be easily reinforced to withstand greater exertion. It should therefore be possible to overload the shield and make it burn out, always assuming the user couldn't throw a giant thug at you and didn't take advantage of his greater cover to shoot back.

It was a terrible plan.

Nightbeat swung out from hiding, took aim and set his blaster to shoot continuously.

The coruscating beam struck the force-shield in a fountain of sparks. Green snapped round with a curse, revealing the glowing projector disc clutched in his left hand. The emitter whined steadily as it threw slabs of electromagnetic flux up against the incoming fire. Seeing Nightbeat, Green snarled and pointed the disc squarely at him. He lifted his other arm too, sections of his armour extending and reconfiguring into complex rings that started to spin at blinding speed.

There was just enough time for Nightbeat to realise that he was looking down the wrong end of a cyclone cannon before a jet of extremely pressurised air struck him in the chest and sent him flying.

* * *

><p>Earthquake was a fast, smart fighter. Diatrion did not waste time being astonished that the massive mech could lash out with such speed and precision, and concentrated instead on being somewhere other than in the way of the huge fists. It was taking all his skill and training to stay even fractionally ahead of the blows, which were causing hundreds of shanix worth of damage every time they missed him.<p>

He threw himself flat to avoid another swing and nearly received a foot to the face. Rolling away, he fired up at his attacker then jumped and dodged behind a support pillar. Most of the shots went wide and those that hit merely drew grunts of pain as they dissipated across solid armour. Even without the force-shield, Earthquake was heavily built enough to absorb the stun-bolts. If Diatrion had had enough time to take proper aim, to pick out some vulnerable spot, he was sure he could have taken the big mech down. But there was no time, no let up, no chance –

The pillar buckled, the hammer-blow of Earthquake's punch nearly tearing it in half. Grasping fingers passed microns in front of Diatrion's face. The crimson metal was pitted and dented and embedded with a million tiny fragments, all glittering different colours. Diatrion picked out several pinpoints of sparkling cyrianate, driven deep into the skin as if by some tremendous impact.

So. This was how Konntryn had died. Quite literally at Earthquake's hands.

The proof galvanised him. His senses, already extended as far as they would go, seemed to sharpen that little bit further. As he dived to the left, he scanned the crates, searching for something, anything that might –

There.

Danger symbols. Marks designating contents likely to explode if incorrectly handled.

With Earthquake nearly on him, Diatrion ran full-tilt for the marked canisters, levelled his gun, flipped it past the safe maximum power setting, fired, and flung himself to the ground.

A gout of flames and shrapnel erupted from the top-most barrel. The canister buckled then blew outwards, taking the ones below with it. Unable to stop himself in time, Earthquake ran straight into the whole fiery mess. He yelped, swiping at the viscous, flaming liquid splattering his face and torso, which only caused it to coat more of him. Swinging wildly, he collapsed yet more stacks, nearly bringing half of them down on Diatrion.

The fresh cascade abruptly gave way to open space. The edge of the platform.

Diatrion leapt for it. Half-blind, Earthquake lunged after him, feet thundering against the floor. At the last moment, Diatrion sprang to the side. The hulking red mech plunged over the edge with a howl, grabbing at empty space, helpless even as he tried to turn and stop himself.

But in the heat of the moment, Diatrion had miscalculated. Those great, pitted fingers caught him a glancing blow and Earthquake's scream became triumphant as he too pitched into the darkness.

* * *

><p>"Let me guess," Nightbeat said, pulling himself free of the remains of the cage he had been flung against, "They call you 'Hurricane'."<p>

"Tornado, actually." Safe behind his shield, the greenish mech advanced in what he probably thought was a menacing fashion. Which, to be fair, was actually quite menacing when you had lost your gun and had just been hit by enough pressure to bend metal. "Not that it's gonna matter to you."

Gun gone, somewhere in mid-flight. Tornado's weapon in-built, couldn't be knocked away, behind a force-shield anyway. Own systems still recovering from the impact, clear line of sight, no way to dodge out of sight. Time to keep the criminal talking...

"Oh, that's what you think. Politeness is extremely important to me, especially in life-or-death situations. I would hate to get my killer's name wrong."

"Funny." Tornado stopped a few paces away and took aim, the cyclone cannon spinning up again.

"Glad you think so, a lot of people find my sense of humour too subtle."

"Heh." A single smirk. No hesitation. Just the smirk and the gun-arm.

What kind of damage would a cyclone cannon cause at close range?

An explosion, somewhere to the left, shook the platform. Tornado's attention wavered, his optics darting to find the source of the noise. Hesitation. Momentary. Enough.

Nightbeat sprang, throwing himself bodily at the other mech. The force-shield crackled into existence, blocking him before he could reach its owner. Tornado still staggered, his aim thrown off. The blast of air went wide, where it no doubt ruined some semi-innocent merchant's quartex. Nightbeat pressed himself grimly against the shield, beating at it with the flats of his hands, forcing it remain active, to keep him out.

And as long as it stayed that way, it was protecting him too.

Unable to shoot without deactivating the barrier, Tornado struggled to fend the blue mech off. He jabbed with the projector disc and pushed, putting all his strength into driving Nightbeat back. And he was the stronger of the two. But Nightbeat had persistence and the fear of certain death on his side. He kept pressing as close into the shield as he could, pounding, kicking, antenna spitting photon charges, doing everything he could to make it up across as wide an area as possible.

Dimly, he was aware that the whining from the projector had changed pitch, growing higher and more strained. Hardly a surprise. The shield was intended to block short, concentrated bursts of energy, not a constant, wide-spread pressure. It might have stopped an assassin's shot with ease but it was not meant for close-combat use. In fact, it was entirely possible that the emitter might just -

_Fzzzark!_

The shield sputtered out as the disc disintegrated. Nightbeat practically fell into Tornado's arms, antenna still blazing. Suddenly unprotected from the glare, Tornado's optics overloaded and he cried out in pain. The cyclone cannon was spinning again, ready to fire, triggered on pure instinct.

Nightbeat grabbed Tornado's elbow and wrenched upwards.

The blast caught the green mech under the chin and ripped most of his head clean off. He tumbled backwards, limp and powerless. Nightbeat went down with him and lay there for a micro-cycle, not quite daring to believe that he had managed to come out on top. Then he checked the body, hurriedly making certain it was not about to come back to life. But no, it was deep in stasis-lock, defensive shut-down brought on by the shock.

Sitting back on his haunches, Nightbeat eyed the gaping head-wound thoughtfully.

* * *

><p>Falling, they tumbled, their momentum carrying them head over heels. Diatrion fought for enough control to avoid Earthquake's frantic flailing. Level after level rocketed by. There was no way to stop their descent, nothing near enough to catch hold of.<p>

They locked optics through the flames that still wreathed Earthquake's head, both recognising the other's fear.

Earthquake began to transform. He must have hoped that a more compacted vehicle mode would help him withstand the impact. The great slabs of his armour shifted about him, rearranging into the shape of some giant earth-moving machine.

Rearranging and briefly exposing his less-well protected superstructure.

Diatrion's arm snapped out almost of its own accord, the gun still held tightly in his hand springing to life once more. Already strained by his earlier stunt, the barrel cracked immediately, but not before releasing a single, ragged energy bolt.

The stinging light flashed into the exposed structure and surged through Earthquake's body. He flinched, mouth dropping open, optics brightening briefly then going out. Unconscious, locked mid-transformation, the red giant slammed into the warehouse floor.

Diatrion was considerably surprised not to follow him offline. His own 'landing' moments later was exceptionally painful. It felt as if his every component had been jarred out of place. But, perhaps because firing his gun had bled off some of his velocity and perhaps because he had managed to roll with the impact, he clung on and stayed in the land of moving parts.

It would have been nice to lie there until everything stopped hurting. But then he remembered Nightbeat and the other criminal. Reluctantly, but knowing there was no choice but to get up, he peeled himself from the floor and got to his feet. Earthquake lay still on his side, smoke curling from the last remains of the oil as they burnt themselves out. It looked unlikely that he would be moving any time soon.

Satisfied, Diatrion hobbled away towards the nearest access ladder.

* * *

><p>He found Nightbeat crouched over the green mech's offline form, finger pressed into the gaping hole where the criminal's face should have been. Which was in many ways a relief, since he had been half expecting to find the opposite scene.<p>

"What are you doing?"

Nightbeat did not start, as such, but did pull his fingers back with noticeable speed, an interface prong retracting sharply into his hand. "Checking his on-board file-store to trace his payment and therefore his employer. I still can't tell you who paid Tornado here to blow up the Mahlex District though. But," he said, looking up at the guardsmech, "he definitely planned it."

Holograms sprang up around them, schematics and plans, both of the industrial complex and the weapon used to destroy it, together with assorted incriminating documents ranging from payment receipts to transcripts of Konntryn's underhanded dealings.

"Oh, don't give me that look again," Nightbeat snapped as Diatrion's expression darkened, "This is all read-only. I may be brilliant but even I can't plant files on someone without it being blatantly obvious to any idiot with a bit of cyber-forensics training. This is all legitimate – well, not legitimate, obviously, it's all extremely criminal and likely to end up with this guy in isolation for the next few hundred mega-cycles but – oh, you know exactly what I mean."

Diatrion nodded very slowly, frown fixed in place. Nightbeat waved dismissively. "Let's worry about all that later. Shouldn't you be calling in back-up now we've done the job?"

"I called them as soon as I was attacked. They should be on their way." He looked pointedly from Nightbeat to Tornado. "Are you going to cause problems?"

"Am I wha – oh! No, no, they're all yours. Viilon commissioned me to find out who was behind the bombing, not bring them back to him. He can take that up with the Magnus. Have them extradited or put the charges before the High Council or whatever. No, I just need to report back to him and get paid."

"Good." Diatrion nodded again, still frowning. "Thank you for your assistance."

"Hah! So formal after all this!" Nightbeat sprang up and patted the guardsmech on the chest. "Couldn't have solved it without you."

From high above came the thump of retro-thrusters and the clamour of a large number of armed mechs bursting through the surface doors. The Praxian division of the Civic Guard had arrived. Nightbeat put his hands on his hips and leant back. "And there they are. It's true what the newsfeeds say – security response times are going up. Good job we weren't in mortal danger or anything, wasn't it?"

* * *

><p><em>Transformers and all associated characters and ideas belong to Hasbro and are used here purely for entertainment purposes.<em>


	23. Point of No Return

**2.15: Point of No Return**

**Sub Level Warehouse Sixty-Seven**

**South Merchant District**

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

That wasn't the end of it, of course.

There were the Praxian guardsmechs to brief, the crime scene to secure, the evidence to catalogue, the property damage to access, and many, many reports to file. Diatrion spent the best part of two hecta-cycles repeating himself in increasing detail to a group of very eager investigators who he suspected were slightly over-compensating for only being involved in the case right at the end.

Then the Magnus arrived.

The shuttle landed while Diatrion was being checked over by a med-tech. He was quite relieved for the interruption – the stocky feme treating him had turned out to be a devout neo-Tractist, who took the opportunity to give him a stern lecture on how the sanctity of life as enshrined in the First Covenant explicitly forbid deliberately endangering that life and how, consequently, his recklessness when it came to his own was an affront to Primus and an insult against his hallowed ancestors. The slim constable sent to inform them that the Magnus wanted to see Diatrion immediately could not have been more welcome if he had been carrying a whole barrel of premium tetra-helix.

Diatrion's relief at escaping the audio-bashing lasted roughly as long as it took to emerge from the temporarily medical platform and see the blue and red figure towering over the crowd of guardsmechs outside.

Deca Magnus did not look pleased. His face was set cold and blank, his optics a smouldering orange. He was listening to the report from the senior Praxian officer with stony patience, twitching his head every so often to look at something that was being pointed out but otherwise completely still and silent. There was a palpable sense of nervousness in the air, not unlike that surrounding unexploded mines. Around him, constables and investigators went hurriedly about their duties, trying to look both parade-ground ready and heavily focused on their whatever it was they were doing.

The constable escorted Diatrion into the Magnus' shadow and they both saluted, snapping to attention. Deca did not react to their presence beyond a curt noise directed at the senior guardsmech when he hesitated for a moment. They stood like that for nearly a cycle while the Magnus heard the rest of the report. Once it was finished, he brusquely dismissed the officer, the constable and everyone else in the immediate area – everyone except Diatrion.

A single glance swept him from head to toe. Then, "In any other circumstances, I would be commending you for your gallantry in the line of duty. I trust you appreciate why I will not be doing so now."

"I take full responsibility for my actions, sir." Diatrion answered without hesitation, still at attention.

"And do you take responsibility for the actions of this commercial investigator – this Masz Mech Adep, alias Nightbeat. Do you take responsibility for his actions as well?"

"As much as they intersected with my case and as much as I allowed him to act where I should have prevented him from doing so, yes sir."

"Intersected with _your_ case?" Something like amusement crossed Deca's face. "This stopped being _your_ case a long time ago. At best it looks like it was this 'Nightbeat's' case. He is gone, by the way."

Confused, Diatrion asked, "Gone, sir?" He had assumed Nightbeat was being held as a witness by the Praxian officers.

"The local Tarnian consul managed to pull out enough legal technicalities to dazzle the lead investigator into letting him go and hurried him away the moment his statement had been recorded." This was said in a way that made it clear the lead investigator's prospects for promotion had subsequently withered to nothing. "He is no doubt halfway back to Tarn by now."

Diatrion nodded his understanding but did not offer any comment.

Nor did the Magnus wait for him to. Looking across towards the warehouse, he continued, "I suppose we should be grateful we got something out of him before he left, although from what I understand it's harder to get him to _stop_ talking. Primus knows what's going to happen when he reports back to his current employer. No doubt I will have to devote the next few quartex to fending off extradition requests from Tarn and keeping those two prisoners of yours in our custody long enough to prove something against them. Prove something using evidence found by _us_, I mean, not by some wretched commercial investigator. A commercial investigator taking the initiative in an official case – hn!" Deca scowled and spread his hands in disbelief. "And it had to be _this_ case. Do you really have any idea what you have done, investigator?"

It was not the question Diatrion had been expecting and, at first, he was lost for words. Then he realised that the Magnus was not asking about a murder case that a private citizen had been allowed to compromise. He was talking about evidence that directly contradicted official conclusions drawn by senior Civic Guardsmechs investigating a direct attack against one of the most powerful cities on Cybertron. A matter of image and public face, of politics and things far above a simple murder.

Things that Diatrion did not consider himself in the least bit qualified to pass judgement on.

"I tried to do my duty, sir, as best as I could under the circumstances. I regret resorting to breaking regulations and I will accept any dis-commendation without question, however I don't believe that I would have been able to solve the case without Nightbeat's assistance."

If this was not the answer the Magnus had wanted, he had the decency not to accuse Diatrion of deliberately missing the point. "Perhaps not," he murmured, optics flashing yellow for an instant, "You have a very interesting definition of 'duty', investigator, if this is where it takes you. Were you trying to prove yourself? Did the thought of a broken case-record drive you so far?"

"No, sir!" Diatrion shifted, embarrassed by the heat that crept into his denial. "If I've gone too far, sir," he went on in a more even voice, "it was for the victim, not myself."

"The victim?" Deca sounded genuinely puzzled.

"Konntryn, sir. The mech who was murdered in Tagen."

The Magnus looked down again and, for the first time, seemed to actually see the mech standing in front of him. The coldness in his expression did not disappear, but it was joined by surprise, a little understanding and, just maybe, a hint of approval. "Justice has been served, investigator?"

"I hope so, sir."

"You hope so, sir," Deca mimicked, then hissed and shook his head, "Yes. Don't we all?"

He beckoned for the senior officer to come back. To Diatrion, he said, "You will turn all remaining materials relating to your investigation over to my staff, who will be taking over from now on. You will then return to your home-base in Tagen where you will continue in your normal duties until such time as you are required to give evidence in the prosecution of 'Tornado' and 'Earthquake'. At this time, I will not be endorsing any official reprimand against you for your unorthodox actions throughout this case; however I cannot rule out such a reprimand should a complaint be raised against you." He paused before adding, "If I were you, I should avoid attracting any attention for a while. Dismissed, investigator."

"Sir!" Diatrion was not sure if the Magnus even saw him salute. The towering mech had already begun to stride away and to issue orders to the crowd that gathered in his wake. All at once, the whole world seemed to have pushed the lone Tagen guardsmech from its thoughts. Diatrion was left standing in the middle of a crime scene, totally detached from the activity around him.

Dismissed.

After everything...

He broke from the salute, spun on his heel and walked smartly to the edge of the exclusion zone, communicated his credentials to the constables guarding the boundary, logged his authorisation and travel plans with the Praxian Civic Guard base, transformed and pulled out on to the road that would take him towards the train docks. He had his orders.

It was time to get back to work.

* * *

><p><strong>Central Processing Hub<strong>

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

Two burly tanks, their battle-masks locked in place, escorted Nightbeat through a maze of hallways to the heart of the Tarnian capital building. They showed him into a large, vaulted chamber humming with power and took up positions outside. The doors sealed behind them, cutting off the light from the corridor. The only illumination left came from the many screens hanging in a great arc from the ceiling.

Nightbeat surveyed the room carefully and with an interested expression, before turning to address the control podium. "Love what you've done with the place. Very oppressive autocratic chic."

The podium unfolded, complex machinery simplifying down around its master. Viilon straightened, interface cables disengaging and snaking away into their housings, energon feeds shutting off and pulling out of his body, the whole apparatus of technocracy lifting from his back. If you had been fanciful, it might have looked as if he were being released from the grip of a giant fist.

Which just proved how backwards you could get things if you gave in to fancy.

With the podium collapsed into to a simple dais, Viilon turned his monoptical gaze on his visitor but made no move to step down and join him on the floor. Not particularly surprised by this (psychologically advantageous, clear field of fire, close enough to reconnect at a moment's notice if needed), Nightbeat put his hands on his hips and looked steadily back. "I'm guessing you got my report already." A lie. He wasn't guessing.

"Correct." Still the same flat voice. As if it would ever change.

"So – I suppose this is the part where you say thank you and pay me. Or torture me a bit to see if that report was accurate. I'd say the odds were about even. "

"I have already corroborated your report." Viilon gestured, sending images and data spooling across the screens. "It is accurate in every respect, albeit unnecessarily florid in tone."

Nightbeat shrugged. "Most people like a little excitement in the prose. Helps them feel they were there too."

An alarm sounded in his head. 'Corroborated your report.' That was what the cyol had said. 'Corroborated.' Fine. Very sensible. And good, if it meant he got paid. Yes, fine.

How?

How had Viilon corroborated that report? He couldn't have got it more than a dozen deca-cycles ago. To have double checked everything so quickly...no. There was something missing. Some vital bit of information that Nightbeat was simply unaware of.

What?

"So, my literary short-comings aside, you're happy with my work, then?" he said, because the first rule of everything was that you never, ever showed that you didn't know something.

"It has been satisfactory," Viilon acknowledged, optic steady, body motionless.

"Great! So that means you'll pay me, yes?"

"The agreed fee has already been deposited to your account. You basic rates plus expenses, plus remuneration for injuries received in the course of your employment. I can provide you with a channel should you wish to confirm the transfer."

Oh, yes, because he could totally trust a communications system slaved to this cyol's will. "Don't worry, I believe you," Nightbeat smiled. He could just ask. Here and now. It went against every instinct he possessed, sure, but Viilon was perhaps the one person who just _would not care_ about impertinent questions. At worst, he'd just ignore them. Except that he was a head of state as well as an emotionless logic-worshipper and heads of state tended to disapprove of people probing their secrets. "So, that's it then?"

"Our business is concluded," Viilon confirmed.

"You don't want to ask me anything? Don't need anything clarified?"

"Your report was comprehensive."

So why in the name of reason was Nightbeat there? If there were no questions to be answered, why was he standing in the heart of Tarn, before its absolute ruler? Certainly not just so that he could be told his work had been satisfactory, or to be paid. Both those could have been done remotely, and they were magnificently superfluous anyway. Protective custody to keep him out of the Civic Guard's hands for a while? That might have involved bringing him to Tarn but not to this temple to control-freakery. It just wasn't logical. Why was he there?

_Why_?

"So I'm free to go?" He was only partially successful at keeping a trace concern out of his voice. The sudden rush of unanswered questions was becoming a little overwhelming, even for him. It was like getting halfway across a bridge only to see the other side falling into the ravine below.

"Our business is concluded," the purple cyol repeated, "You may leave."

"Just like that?" No-no-no-no! This wasn't right! What was he missing? What was this damned calculator playing at?

"As you say."

In their first meeting, Viilon's lack of expression had been a challenge, something to be tested and needled, just to see if it would give way. Now it was a barrier, an impediment to understanding. A frustration of monumental proportions because there was no way to approach it, no purchase, no reasonable line of attack. _Something_ was missing, some piece of the puzzle – and Nightbeat could not see it. Could not even see the shape of it. To have come so far and then...

"I'll be off then."

No reply. Obviously. Well then. He spun on his heel and took a step towards the door. Think it through, think it through. Logic. The key was logic. There had to be a reason for his being brought there. There was no reason for his being there if his business with Viilon really was concluded, so logically it could not really be finished. He took another step. All that stuff about his report being satisfactory – that couldn't be true then. Simply a platitude designed to lull him into a false sense of security. Surprise, one-eye, no good! Assume the inverse then. Assume that the report had not been satisfactory, that Viilon wanted more. Assume that.

A deep dread began to form at the back of his processors. Step three.

He had had fun threatening the Black Shadow with Viilon – with _Shockwave's_ – reputation. So much fun that he had forgotten what it _meant_. Viilon, who had single-handedly turned Tarn from a broken war-zone into a prosperous city. Viilon, who had been the terror of the battlefield even before that. Viilon, who saw the world through the filter of pure, clinical logic.

Viilon who corroborated _everything_. Which meant...

Step four.

"Your stratagem has failed." There was no triumph in Viilon's words, no triumph, no pleasure, no satisfaction – just simple fact, plainly stated.

Nightbeat froze, every circuit singing with shock. _As if the bomb that killed you had already gone off._ "My...stratagem?" he asked, as calmly as he could. No answer. Nothing. Just the hum of the machinery. Very slowly, he turned back to face Viilon. To look up at that unwavering optic. And at the screens hanging above it.

"What..." he began. Then, "What?!"

His report had vanished from the screens, replaced by images of two mechs, one red and massive, one green and missing his face, both clamped into nasty looking devices, their heads encased in tangles of wires and cables that burrowed deep into their armour. Deep into their minds. Into their memories. Into their financial records.

"They're –!" The words tripped over one another. Nightbeat fought for coherence. "They're supposed to be in Praxus!"

"My agents within the Civic Guard were able to deliver them here before they could be more securely imprisoned." The way Viilon said it, it was of no importance, a mere triviality, not a revelation of deep, deep corruption in one of the oldest Cybertronian institutions.

Nightbeat felt more shock at that than he would have expected. He had no great love for the White and Blues. Being one of them had battered it out of him. Even so, to see them undermined so casually – it _hurt_. Like seeing an old, slightly dim acquaintance being kicked in the tail for no very good reason.

"And now you're sifting through their brains," he choked out.

"The search sequence was completed before you arrived." Viilon turned his head and one of the screens hinged down and across, a new display flashing up. Reams of data rolled past the image of an angular flyer, his regal frame coated in gold and bronze. "This is the mech who funded the bombing of the Mahlex District. Gellr Mech Auon."

It was a name that would mean nothing to almost everyone. Even Nightbeat, who liked to know all about the movers and shakers who controlled the fuel and the money, had had to look him up.

"A Vosian businessmech, with investments in fuel, foundries and various off-world enterprises." Viilon paused, raising a finger to point out a particularly pertinent point in Gellrauon's stats. "He has connections to several major political figures in Vos and has been suspected of funding several anti-Tarn demonstrations."

All of which, Nightbeat knew. All of which Viilon knew he knew. The yellow eye swung remorselessly back and pinned the investigator where he stood.

"You hoped by omitting these details from your report to me and passing Tornado and Earthquake into Civic Guard custody that you would prevent or else delay this connection to Vos from coming to my attention. In doing so, you would present me with an outcome in which I would merely have to wait for the full truth to be exposed by the Civic Guard, who would retain full control of the time and circumstances of that disclosure. In this way, the evidence's power could be limited and contained." Viilon's optic contracted to a point. "This is not acceptable."

Everything locked into place. This was what Viilon had wanted uncovering all along. Wanted? Was that the right word? Expected, perhaps. And he must have known that Nightbeat possessed the skills to track the money back to its source, deduced that there was only one reason why that information would have been omitted from the final report, and acted to secure the evidence by any means possible. A calculated risk, one that exposed his agents and lost him one advantage. Yet weighed against the potential political capital to be gained...

Politics. So easy to predict. The patterns just unfolded in Nightbeat's head. He hardly had to think about them. Connections, cause, effect, consequences, recriminations, retaliations. Patterns, spiralling out of each other. Patterns of conflict. Patterns of hatred. Patterns of ruin.

"No!" He barely recognise his own voice. Raw, petulant fury gripped him. He had been so sure, so giddily pleased with the resolution, the perfect solution and now – "No! No-no-no-no-NO!"

Viilon looked past him, optic returning to normal. The doors hissed quietly open and Nightbeat was dimly aware of the guards entering the room.

"As previously discussed, your work has been satisfactory. If you require a reference, it will be sent on to you." Tarn's master flicked his attention to the hulking brutes who had just come in. "Escort this mech to the nearest transport hub."

And with that, he reactivated the control podium, folding it around himself once more.

The prisoners vanished from the screens. Gellrauon too. Nightbeat was left flanked by the heavies, a tiny, raging figure to be hustled out and removed from play. A component, no longer needed.

Dismissed.

* * *

><p><em>Transformers and all associated characters and ideas belong to Hasbro and are used here purely for entertainment purposes.<em>


	24. Ignition

**2.16: Ignition**

**Defence Directorate Command Platform**

**Primon Flats**

**Cybertron**

Optrion marched quickly through the access corridor, the alarms that had pulled him from shut-down still ringing in his head. The sounds of running feet echoed around the temporary structure, technicians and soldiers alike startled from their usual duties by the call to alert stations.

He spied Bentwing emerging from a side door and headed to intercept him. The blue flyer glanced down at him and nodded, expression puzzled. "Any idea what this is all about?"

"No more than you, I'm afraid."

"Better get in there and find out then." Wings twitching with anticipation, Bentwing led the way to the briefing chamber.

They found a dozen officers and adjutants crowded in front of the main displays, keeping only a little way back from Megatron and Vieuxuun. All optics were locked on the holo-screens which, absurdly, were flooded with news-feeds. Only the heavily annotated maps of the Vos/Tarn border remained at military spec – the rest was given over to an endless stream of images, from the Celestial Temple in Iacon to the streets of Tagen. Most prominent, however, were pictures streaming from the Vosian Palace of Law and the Tarnian capital building.

"_...still not available for comment. However, sources close to the Conclave have reported that an emergency session has been in progress since mid-day. Reaction from the financial sector has been angry, with many accusing Tarn of attempting to discredit Vosian investors in the optics of the wider business community. Jal Avir Alva of the Pan-State Banking Conglomerate has called for the enforcement of due-process and a halt to baseless speculation –"_

The channel on the central display shifted, a new feed cycling up. A red mech standing in a golden colonnade peered earnestly into the camera. _"...just heard that Emirate Haacano of Tarn has been called to appear before the Magnus. This comes as several Lakatera states call for greater oversight of the Tarnian peace-keeping force deployed in Simfur, and, indeed, as serious questions are being asked about several recent energy deals brokered between Vos and states previously dependant on Tarnian fuel. And – yes – we now go live to an interview with Emirate Graviitus of Vos, who –"_

The channel changed again, this time to show a devastated industrial landscape, gutted by fire. _"...was the scene following the explosion in the Mahlex district energon distribution centre. The effect on the local fuel infrastructure has been catastrophic, and the consequences have been felt in many Qosho Region cities. While reconstruction is now well under-way, it is expected to be at least three mega-cycles before full operational status can be restored. The bombing, carried out using a high-intensity 'flash-point' device, was originally attributed to one of the anarchist groups known to operate in the region and sparked a joint Civic Guard/Defence Directorate anti-terrorist operation –"_

"_...who have just joined us,"_ cut in the unmistakable voice of the famed reporter Grandslam, speaking over pictures of Governor Viilon and Lord Taynset of Vos, _"the main story this morning is the accusation by the Tarnian government that a Vosian businessmech funded the recent bombing of the Mahlex Industrial District in Tarn's east quarter. Evidence presented to the High Council and the Office of the Magnus is currently being assessed and an official statement as to its validity is expected shortly. Vos has already responded angrily to the accusations, condemning them as a cynical attempt to use the tragic loss of life as a political weapon –"_

"Commanders." A communications technician interrupted the flow of news and brought the map to the fore. "We're picking up Tarnian military forces moving along the border. It looks like they're moving to reinforce several out-lying industrial centres."

"In case the Vosians decide to blow up more power plants," Vieuxuun muttered caustically, optics tracking the rapidly moving icons.

"A sensible precaution under the circumstances," Megatron growled back.

"Possibly, but I doubt very much that the Vosians will see it that way."

Optrion could only agree. Even in a defensive capacity, the sight of Tarnian troops moving anywhere near its borders would be anathema to Vos. From the murmurs running through the crowd, the potential consequences were obvious to everyone. "Frag me," Bentwing said softly, "but this is gonna get messy."

Megatron turned to his troops, face set and grim. "As yet, our orders have not changed. Given...this –" He gestured to the screens. "– however, it can only be a matter of time before we are called on to intervene. I want all lieutenant commanders to coordinate with their squad-leaders to prepare deployment strategies and tactical information on the region. Provided," he adjusted, glancing at Vieuxuun, "that you agree with that."

"Of course, Commander Megatron. In this matter I do not believe we can be _too_ prepared."

"Right. Optrion, Bentwing, Cascade – we'll review this new dispersion of Tarnian forces. The rest of you – disperse and begin your preparations."

The crowd broke up as ordered, the hum of concerned voices rising as the discussions began. Optrion moved against the tide, crossing the room to join his peers and superior at the tactical consoles, mind buzzing with possible outcomes and responses.

As he did, he saw icons lighting up on the Vosian side of the border. Aerial troops, deploying in watchful formations.

The first, he guessed, of many.

**End of Act 2**

**Cast List – Act 2**

**Name****(Nickname)****– Function****– Full****designation****[Name****– Base****Form****– Template****– Birthing****Well]**

**Sentinel ****Prime** () – Prime of Cybertron

**Xaaron** () – Emirate of Nova Cronum – _Xa __Mech __Aron __Tava __Szenda_

**Graviitus** () – Emirate of Vos – _Gravi __Mech __Itus __Lyivas __Keldon_

**Haacano** () – Emirate of Tarn – _Haac __Mech __Ano __Tava __Szenda_

**Traachon** () – Emirate of Iacon – _Traac __Mech __Hon__Ias __Zar_

**Aetalon** () – Emirate of Simfur – _Veeta __Cyol __Lon __Dradia __Chemic_

**Optrion** () – Defence Directorate Lieutenant Commander – _Op __Mech __Trion __Novus __Zar_

Zerinat (**Ironhide**) – Defence Directorate Trooper – _Zer __Mech __Inat __Cosa __Hexus_

Toiinat (**Ratchet**) – Defence Directorate Medic – _Toi __Mech __Inat __Cosa __Hexus_

**Megatron** () – Defence Directorate Field Commander – _Mega __Mech __Tron __Tava __Szenda_

Rahshiv (**Ravage**) – Defence Directorate Lieutenant – _Rah __Quad __Shiv __Temla __Corvis_

Hialuxx (**Trailbreaker**) – Defence Directorate Trooper – _Hial __Mech__Uxx __Roda __Zar_

**Vieuxuun** () – Defence Directorate Field Commander – _Vieuz __Mech Uun Novus Hexus_

**Grandus** () – Defence Directorate Supreme Commander – _Grand __Mech __Us __Kolva __Szenda_

**Viktoleo** () – Defence Directorate Supreme Commander – _Vikto __Mech __Leo __Lekto __Zar_

Torlaet (**Deftwing**) – Defence Directorate Supreme Commander – _Torl __Mech __Aet __Lyivas __Keldon_

**Taynset** () – High Lord of Vos – _Tayns __Mech __Et __Lyivas __Keldon_

**Sarristec** () – Lord of Vos – _Saris __Mech __Tec __Lyivas __Keldon_

**Vvnet** () – Lord of Vos – _Vvn __Feme__Et __Lyivas __Tema_

**Viilon** (Shockwave) – Governor of Tarn – _Vii __Cyol __Lon __Dradia __Szenda_

**Deca ****Magnus** () – Civic Guard Supreme Commander

**Diatrion** – Civic Guard Investigator – _Dia __Mech __Trion __Novus __Zar_

Chevuxx (**Clutch**) – Civic Guard Constable – _Chev __Mech __Uxx __Roda __Zar_

**Mesinat** () – Civic Guard Constable –_Mes __Mech __Inat __Cosa __Hexus_

**Talainat** () – Civic Guard Investigator – _Tala __Mech __Inat __Cosa __Hexus_

Relshiv (**Glitter**) – Civic Guard Pathologist – _Rel __Quad __Shiv __Temla __Corvis_

Maszadep (**Nightbeat**) – Freelance Investigator – _Masz __Mech __Adep __Novus __Keldon_

**Tynllonn** () - Civic Guard Commander – _Tynl Mech Lonn Cosa Hexus_

Veedacraal (**Hardrive**) – Freelance Accountant – _Veedac Mech Raal Verous Klyda_

Amagos (**Earthquake**) – Black Shadow Member – _Amag Mech Os Tarva Svenda_

Kattatron (**Tornado**) – Black Shadow Member – _Katta Mech Tron Roda Zar_

**Konntyrn** – Businessmech – _Konn __Mech __Tyrn __Verous __Nor_

**Gauun** () – Decal Designer – _Gau __Mech __Un __Verous __Klyda_

**Aratron** (Wheels) – Body-shop Worker – _Ara __Mech __Tron __Verous __Klyda_

**Calitae** () – Oil-house owner – _Cali __Feme __Tae __Gelshal __Klyda_

Junaadep (**Racetrack**) – Body-shop Owner – _Juna Mech Adep Roda Zar_

Eimoril (**Needlenose**) – Fashion Feed Personality – _Eimo __Mech __Ril __Novus __Keldon_

Jovandiim (**Grand****Slam**) – Reporter – _Jovan __Trac __Iim __Dradia __Corvis_

Ottonaraac (**Raindance**) – News Feed Camera – _Ottona Avir Raac Kelssa Corvis_

Zirokk (**Impactor**) – Gladiator, Iacon East Heavy Club – _Zir Mech Okk Draida Viss_

Evvnortt (**Rampage**) – Gladiator, Praxus West Sector Heavy Club – _Evvn Mech Ortt Verous Klyda_


	25. Ancient History

**Act 3: Mutually Assured Destruction**

**3.0: Ancient History**

**Cybertron**

**A very long time ago**

Quite without meaning to, he slipped into memory and in his memories, he ran for his life.

Tarn burned around him, ripped apart by a dozen conflicting insurrections. It was not so much a civil war as a free-for-all, warlords and their gangs struggling for control of the streets without any real plan for what to do next. Anyone with the wrong brand was a target. Anyone without a brand was a target. In fact, the only way not to be a target for someone was to hide under a rock.

And pray that no one came along to turn it over.

Vaulting the remains of a heavy construction mech, he made a dash for the cover of a nearby workshop, micro-shells raining down around him. Twisting as he reached the doorway, flinging up his arm and barely bothering to aim, he fired back. The cannon he had fitted in place of his left hand spat plasma bolts, burning shards that sliced angrily into his pursuers. The lead thug, a massive quad with blue optics and an enormous mortar fitted to its back, reared up and shrieked in pain, claws swiping great chunks out of the make-shift barricades scattered across the street.

Turning his back on it, he plunged into the darkness of the building, picking out a path through the detritus littering the interior. The place must have been used for fitting out aircraft at some point. Hulking engine cowls and the rusting remains of turbines loomed under the arching roof, turning the building into a twisting maze. Behind him, he could hear the rising growl of engines – smaller mechs or femes, he guessed, transforming to race after him in the tight space.

Their eagerness worked in his favour. Caught up in the headlong rush to escape, he did not see the collision, but he certainly felt the heat of the explosion and the rush of air that washed over him, driving him onwards. Someone – probably the giant quad – bellowed obscenities over the din. The engines rose in pitch, the remaining pursuers speeding up in response to the curses being hurled at them. He fled onwards.

Blind luck brought him to a gap in the workshop's far wall, one that opened out on to what was left of one of the orbital express-ways. He scrambled through and stumbled a little way out across the broken expanse of roadway. Looking back, he saw a blaze of lights rushing out of the gloom, making straight for him.

Fighting down a wave of panic, he flipped into tank mode, spun, lifted his gun barrel to point at the wall above the hole, and fired. The single shot – which swallowed a worryingly large chunk of his remaining fuel – detonated against the metal and blew it to fragments. For a horrible, lingering micro-cycle, the wall only sagged, stubbornly resisting the tug of gravity. Then, with an almighty groan, the panels gave way and cascaded down, completely covering the gap.

The muffled screams and reverberations told him that not all his pursuers had managed to stop in time.

Not willing to risk waiting to see if any of them managed to get through, or found a way around, he spun back and drove north along the express-way, as fast as he dared. It was rough going, avoiding the potholes and bomb craters that consumed most of the road surface. He managed to make it to a junction that had not been torn apart, though, and swung down into the underpass, transforming to find a better grip on the uneven surfaces.

He was met by the sharp click of an expanding weapons system. Automatically, he brought his gun arm to bear on the source of the noise and came face-to-face with a grubby yellow feme, her armour cracked and dented. Her optics widened behind the maser rifle, then she visibly relaxed and lowered the gun. "Thank Primus it's you."

"You were waiting for me?"

"I thought you'd probably come this way. You or one of the others." She looked past him, searching for something that was not there. "Do you know what happened to them after we ran into those Destrons?"

"No. I think Toraizer got away but the others..." He shrugged helplessly.

"_Frag_. You think they made it?"

Not wanting to answer, he turned to look down into the heart of the city. Smoke was rising thickly from between the gutted towers, punctuated by irregular bursts of light and flame. There was no way of telling who was attacking whom and, really, it hardly mattered. The crossfire was all the same to those caught in the middle of it.

"We need to get under cover," he said quietly, "It looks like it's moving this way –" The scream of jet engines cut him off. Five silvery darts hurtled overhead in close formation, banking to avoid a stream of flak that promptly erupted out of the approaching battlefront. His companion stared in shock at the vapour trails, and she started violently as more jets rocketed across the sky, groups of three arrayed in spread-out triangles.

"What in the name of – who the frag has the fuel for that many flyers?!"

"Stormhammer going by the colours on the leaders but..." He frowned. "But those are _Vosian_ models."

"Vosans? Why would the Vosians be helping Stormhammer?"

The flyers were disgorging bombs now, points of glittering metal that tore up the ground in brilliant bursts of colour. "No idea, but I really wouldn't want to be Ruination at the mo –" Another wave flashed by, their bay doors gaping. "Get down!"

He shoved her away, trying to throw her back deeper into the meagre cover offered by the underpass. The ground shook, rocked, shattered beneath him. Pure noise flooded his hearing, the concussion from the explosion tossing him helplessly into the air. As the world shattered around him, he heard the yellow feme crying out, shouting his name.

"Xaaron!"

"XAARON!"

"Xaaron?"

The communications unit drew him out of his reverie, the collapsing towers of the old Tarn blurring back into the familiar golden glow of his office. Traachon's face was peering at him from the communication unit. He acknowledged and accepted the incoming call, noting with alarm how flustered the Iaconian Emirate was looking. "What is it? What's happened?"

"I think you should join me in the Decagon," Traachon said slowly, "Xaaron...it's started."

* * *

><p><em>Transformers <em>_and __all __associated __characters __and __ideas __belong __to __Hasbro __and __are __used __here __purely __for __entertainment __purposes._


	26. War Games

**3.1: War Games**

**The Kahlian Ridge**

**The Vos/Tarn Border**

**Cybertron**

A series of natural peaks formed by the collision of two of the great plates that made up Cybertron's surface, the Kahlian Ridge had always marked the boundary between Tarn and Vos. At one time or another, both city-states had laid claim to it, marking its highest points with guard towers and signal posts that were inevitably seized or razed the next time the border shifted. During some period of relative stability, long ago, it had been found that the geological accident that had lifted the Ridge had brought with it several thousand hix of pipework that would otherwise have been buried in the sub-surface. Direct access to Cybertron's own ancient and apparently endless fuel distribution network had secured the two cities places as major suppliers of energon and spurred them to explore their interiors for more convenient – and profitable – routes. After some minor wars over rights to the Kahlian pipes, both turned their efforts to safer paths, leaving the Ridge as something to be secured for prestige rather than for practical reasons.

Then the Tarnians decided that reactivating the Kahlian pipes would improve the efficiency of their fuel-distribution network.

Construction on the new distribution nodes had already begun when the Mahlex District had been bombed. In the wake of that disaster, efforts to complete the modernisation and bring the pipes back online had only accelerated. In almost no time at all, fifteen nodes had sprung up along the Ridge, each squat, heavy building looking ready to repel a sustained attack, never mind pump vast quantities of refined energon across the planet. The nests of automated sentry turrets made it very clear that Tarn was not taking any chances with the facilities' security.

Soon after Viilon's announcement that Vos had been involved in the Mahlex bombing, a squad of Vosian soldiers arrived at the main facility, presenting a declaration endorsed by the Conclave that formally demanded the removal of Tarnian personnel and equipment from its border. The workers and guards, incensed by the alleged Vosian terrorism, refused point blank to move or even confer with their superiors about doing so. The Vosians, incensed by the accusations, refused to back down or consult with _their_ superiors. Heated words were exchanged. Then shots.

By some minor miracle, no one was seriously injured and the instant their respective commanders realised what was happening, both sides were ordered to cease fire. With ill grace, the Vosians withdrew to _just_ the other side of the border. The Tarnians glared after them, stubbornly digging in that little bit deeper, making it clear they were not about to dismantle the pumping stations. Formal complaints raced through the ether, words a thousand times more violent than the actual incident shouted into the audios of anyone who would listen.

And far behind the border, to each side of the Ridge, deep within the castles and garrisons that ringed the ancient cities, soldiers readied themselves for what was to come. Stellar-cycles of military investment were paraded before eager commanders: massive armoured tanks bristling with armaments, sleek jets carrying enough ordnance to flatten entire districts, weapons that would have been illegal if their existence had been general knowledge – the arsenals were as varied as they were extensive. Their true numbers hidden in concealed staging grounds and the confused tangles of creative accounting, the two opposing armies had grown exponentially and in direct relation to one another. Spurred on by escalating fears and shameless espionage, they had been obsessively prepared for the day when the enemy finally gave up its pretence of civilisation and lashed out.

There were few who did not think that day was close at hand.

* * *

><p><strong>Grand Amphitheatre<strong>

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

"At every turn, Tarn has proved its deceit and disregard for the laws and traditions that bind Cybertron together! Their attempts to discredit their opponents and their willingness to take advantage of those in distress only prove what we in Vos have always known: Tarn cannot be trusted!" Sarristec's words boomed out across the amphitheatre and no doubt carried down to the streets below. That was on top of the cameras relaying the speech the length and breadth of the city and recording it for posterity. Good. Vindication deserved to be shouted for all to hear.

He spread his arms with apt theatricality, grateful for the space afforded by the vast stage. It was always better to stand alone, unhindered by those who, by necessity, occupied the same level. Here, the line of lesser ministers and attendant hangers-on was safely tucked at the back of the platform where they would not distract the crowd from the speech or the mech giving it. "For many hundreds of stellar-cycles," Sarristec went on, "we have been forced to watch as all the advancement and civilisation we have cultivated in this great city has been dashed to ruins not a hundred hix beyond our borders. The depravity of the Tarnian warlords was surpassed only by that of the peoples who allowed them to come to power. The labouring classes, not cherished and relied upon as they are here, but brutalised and twisted into savagery, turned their natural gifts of strength and endurance towards the most _base_ of purposes."

Pausing, he allowed his audience to imagine those purposes for themselves. There was no need to spell it out. Everyone knew Tarnians were, to their core, killers and destroyers of beauty. Hissing rose from the tiers of perches spread out before him, all the way to the top where seats were crammed between the delicate, ultra-strong framework that held the amphitheatre aloft. Many in the crowd clattered their wings or banged their hands together in agreement.

"Every effort to aid them was rebuffed, every mercy mission violently rejected. Countless times the hand of friendship was extended, only to be smashed away!" On taking office and getting access to the Conclave's restricted records, Sarristec had discovered – much to his own surprise – that this was completely true. He had always assumed the stories of aid missions being slaughtered by Tarnian brigands to have been exaggerated but, as it turned out, even troops sent to assist preferred warlords into power had suffered betrayal and attempted murder. Some people really were beyond help.

"Then, when we were certain that Tarn would simply, safely self-destruct and free us from the shadows it cast over our beloved homeland, something even worse wormed its way up from the ruins! Viilon and his so-called _Logical Revolution_! Let us make no mistake about this: he may wear the guise of the saviour of his people, but Vii Cyol Lon is single-handedly responsible for the deaths of _thousands_! To secure a 'new dawn' for Tarn, he obliterated his rival warlords and rode to power on the backs of their followers' corpses! His _logic_, his _reason_, his vaunted _genius_ could find no other way to end the violence than one of the most colossal, cynical, coldly calculated acts of slaughter that Cybetron has ever seen!"

This brought a disgusted roar from the crowd and more applause. Sarristec spread his arms again, this time in a gesture of disbelief. "Yet despite this, Viilon has managed to maintain a veneer of moral authority that has fooled many into believing that he was _justified_ in his actions. Justified! Oh, yes, he has rebuilt Tarn – he has paved over the ashes of the past and put up bright, clean blockhouses. Does that cover up a foundation of dead bodies and spilt fuel? Does that excuse his crimes? No! Nor does it excuse the oppression his rule or the ruthlessness with which he implements his will. He has no regard for life! He has no regard for the values that are fundamental to Cybertronian civilisation! He is not _fit_ to be a head of state!"

Another roar of agreement. The applause became just a little frenzied. They were caught in his words, in the exhilaration of someone in power confirming their beliefs. Pausing again, Sarristec lifted his hand, signalling for quiet, posture and expression becoming sombre.

"There are those who tell us that the new Tarn is an improvement, that nothing could be worse than the turmoil that came before, that _peace is worth any price_. They say that we fear the new because we are entrenched in the old – that Vos belongs to the past and Tarn to the future. And they may be right."

Silence, and the threat of anger. A frisson of treachery, the sharp anticipation of betrayal. He let them savour it, then broke the illusion. "Yes, Vos relies on the past. Because we remember it! We respect it! And we know that peace cannot be built on death! We know that peace cannot be bought with the fuel of the living, with murder and destruction and the shattering of the Covenants! Vos is a birthplace of Primes! Tarn is but a soulless factory, churning out weapons of war behind a veil of rationality! If that is the future, I say to you that we are _right_ to enshrine the past! Look around you!"

He spun in a circle, firing his thrusters just enough to lift him into the air, and encompassed the six mighty spires that supported the amphitheatre and the great, soaring minarets beyond in one expansive sweep of his hands. "If this stands in contrast to the future, if this must _fall_ before the future, then I want no part in it! Viilon's way is the death of morality! It is the end of civilisation, as base and violent as the anarchy that spawned it! This is not reactionary! This is sanity! This is belief in our ideals! This is faith in our history! This is our right not to stand idly by while our way of life is rejected in favour of hollow, pitiless 'logic'!"

The crowd howled its approval. As one, from the foremechs in the cheap-seats to the energetic academics in the middle rows to the business tycoons crowded in the private galleries, they rose and cheered and clapped. Sarristec smiled widely, showing his appreciation for their support. "We stand together!" he called over the adoration, savouring the success of his words, "The days ahead will be dark and dangerous. We face an enemy so insidious that many cannot see the threat even as it looms before them. But we are of Vos and that gives us the clarity of vision and strength of purpose to meet this challenge! Together, unified, as one voice shouting from the sky, we will soar high and emerge into the dawn strong and unbowed – Cybertron's true future!"

The amphitheatre erupted and Sarristec let the nationalistic fervour wash over him, beaming as the crowd bellowed its love of Vos, its love of _him_.

* * *

><p><strong>The Celestial Temple<strong>

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

"If you can't get the exact numbers, can you at least get me a rough estimate?" Xaaron frowned at the voice in his head, the shrill protests digging into his processors like a diamond drill. "Yes," he agreed patiently, "I am aware of how difficult it must be for you to release classified military intelligence to a high ranking member of the government that employs you but please do your best. It is quite important that I know just how big a bomb I am trying to defuse before I start pulling wires out." The voice burbled on and he momentarily off-lined his optics in mild despair. "Let me put it another way: I need to make people more scared of a war between two of the most powerful states on the planet than they are of either one of those states individually and so I would like _very much_ to be able to give them accurate information on just how far into the Pit such a war would land us. Do you understand? Excellent. Yes, please do speak to your superiors. I shall do the same, which, since my superior out-ranks yours by being the head of state, means this whole conversation has been pointless and a colossal waste of my time. Good day."

Cutting the communication channel, Xaaron snapped his attention back to the aides traipsing after him as he strode purposefully through the Temple's winding golden corridors. Unprompted, the nearest – a stocky brown truck with a blue faceplate – resumed the task of detailing and analysing the latest developments.

"It seems neither side is willing to start a war over a pumping station. Well, not _that_ pumping station at any rate. The line from both cities is that their borders are being threatened. Mainly the usual stuff about old treaties and fresh militarism, though the Vosians did throw out a legal challenge on the grounds that fortifying energon distribution plants to the degree the Tarnians are is a clear sign that they intend to horde fuel, in direct contravention of several Inter-State accords. It might just have traction and the Magnus' Office is giving it some serious thought. Half the states who take fuel from Vos have leaped on it, especially those who've had to switch from Tarnian energon because of Mahlex. They're calling for a Council investigation."

"Which might not necessarily be a bad thing if it brings everything to a stop for a while..." Xaaron mused, tapping his chin, "Although after the Civic Guard's recent...public image problems, I'm not sure the Tarnians would be willing to – forgive me, Dionaat, please go on."

Not showing the least sign of being perturbed by the interruption, Dionaat began again, "Praxus is leading the charge on that one. Coincidentally, they've just ratified another long-term energon contract with Vos, one that explicitly cuts Tarn out of the running as far as fuelling them in the future goes."

"Is that legal?"

"I'm running the queries now, Emirate." Dionaat paused, optics flickering. "Oh, and Lord Sarristec has just finished delivering a speech to a political rally taking place in Southern Vos. He was speaking on behalf of the Conclave, though he served as that area's representative prior to his elevation."

"Is it too much to hope that he was calling for calm and moderation?"

Another pause. The aide's face was perfectly still as he replayed the recording to himself. "Yes Emirate."

Xaaron heaved his optics towards the ceiling, erasing Sarristec's name from an ever-diminishing list of reasonable Vosian politicians. Another part of his mind whirred with dozens of recent inflammatory speeches, from Viilon's blunt accusations to the raging 'statements' regarding the Kahlian Ridge. It seemed that everyone involved was busy shouting at everyone else and no one was interested in listening to minor things like predicted consequences or suggestions of reconciliation.

Marginally more depressed, he skipped back to his lists and brought up files on the most recent shouter. "Sarristec, hmm? His remit appears to be widening if he's addressing rallies unescorted."

"Officially he's still just responsible for Vos' energy ministry," Dionaat stated, "However, he has certainly been giving more than his fair share of official statements and speeches lately. All reports indicate that he's well liked by the public, largely because he's seen as the face of modern Vos."

"A profitable image to cultivate." Xaaron downloaded the recording from the rally and reviewed it critically, wincing slightly at the enthusiasm with which Sarristec's oration was received. "And he certainly knows how to play to an audience."

"There are rumours that he has Lord Taynset's particular favour, even that he might be being prepared for higher office."

"That would explain a great deal." The golden mech tilted his head. "I assume he is merrily making enemies and annoying his competitors?"

"I could not say, Emirate. The Conclave is being more than usually opaque and none of our usual sources have been able to provide us with a clear idea of how the various Lords view Sarristec's recent activities."

"Ah. They all loathe him."

Xaaron put his fingers together and the little procession continued in silence into a side passage lined with statues of ancient athletes. Dionaat kept pace, head slightly bowed. The other two aides exchanged brief data-bursts, compiling news reports from a dozen different sources.

"Well," the Emirate murmured, "I wish this got us anywhere. But frankly, the Lords of Vos have always despised one another and it's never stopped them antagonising their neighbours before. Hm. We'll flag Sarristec for closer observation. His public appearances will probably coincide with major Vosian movements, or at least those Taynset wants widely known. Now." He brought up his schedules. "The emergency meeting with Traachon and representatives of other concerned states. We need to approach Uraya and Tyrest. Hexima and Tyger Pax won't be enough to sway any major vote. I was hoping to include Tomaandi but if Vos has dug its claws into Praxus, he's unlikely to be much use. I will contact Vraylixx and Januun personally after my conference with Tryptatrion, but I want you to test the field before I do. See if you can get an up-to-date idea of how they feel about the situation. And while we're on the subject of preparation, there will probably be another extraordinary Council meeting this evening. Graviitus looked pleased with himself when I passed him in the archive hallway earlier. I expect he's received incontrovertible proof that Tarn's Kahlian stations are illegal. Again. Please do what you can to anticipate that. Since it's not the major issue I will not have time to focus much attention on it, but any useful background information will be welcome."

They reached the entrance to Xaaron's office, the doors sliding smoothly open to admit him. Nova Cronum's elected Emirate turned and nodded to the mechs behind him. "Dionaat, Verba, Merrantron – thank you as always for your dedication and diligence. I am putting you under far more pressure than usual, I know, and you are coping magnificently. I think I would blow a processor if I had to handle this crisis without your help. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get an aggravating minor official in trouble with our honoured Speaker."

* * *

><p><em>Transformers <em>_and __all __associated __characters __and __ideas __belong __to __Hasbro __and __are __used __here __purely __for __entertainment __purposes._


	27. Fire in the Sky

**3.2: Fire in the Sky**

**Vosian Refinery Primon Six**

**Low Orbit**

**Cybertron**

Optrion hated space-walking.

He just wasn't built for it. For a ground-pounder like him, it meant far more than just coping with zero-gravity. It meant pressurising his body so that his fuel wouldn't boil in his pipes and shielding himself against hard radiation that threatened to fry his sensors in their housings. It meant augmenting his heat-exchanges to stop his components cooking themselves inside his exo-structure, and a secondary motivator system specifically designed to stop him flinging himself off into the void with an accidental gesture.

In short, it meant the cloying embrace of a hazardous environment shell.

The thick, lifeless plates gripped him tight, locked on by a thousand connection points. He could feel them dripping air and energy into him, an odd, uncomfortable process that overrode his body's natural functions. On top of that, the shell slowed and regulated his movement, making it feel as though he were wading through thick oil. His vehicle mode was completely out of the question.

That was the most unpleasant part. Being unable to transform made him feel trapped by the shell, not protected by it. He kept trying to stretch his wheels or shift his limbs out of their biped-mode sockets, only to find he couldn't. The dull resistance of inert metal held him solidly in one form.

He hoped he was hiding his discomfort as well as Vieuxuun. The green field commander wore his shell as easily as if it had been his own armour and moved about with the relaxed confidence of someone on familiar ground. Like Optrion, he stood on the back of a massive red and white Air Guardian, having climbed up from the space-jet's transport bay. Unlike Bentwing and the other flyers Optrion was used to serving with, the Guardians were fully capable of reaching orbit under their own power and utterly at home above the atmosphere. Their particular superstructure type had been cultivated as a means of protecting spacecraft from alien marauders – orbital insertion was as mundane for them as hauling battle-decks was for Optrion.

"_Optics on target_," Vieuxuun called out, his Air Guardian lifting slightly out of formation.

Optrion enhanced the view ahead. The Vosian refinery spun lazily against the starscape, stacks of fuel tanks and processing columns fanning from a spherical central hull. Spotlights picked out docking ports and observation platforms, and the occasional worker scurrying from gantry to gantry. Beyond, a hundred similar structures arced over Cybertron's equator, clustered above the cities they served. Brilliant dots rising from below marked the passage of surface-to-orbit tankers, greedy for fresh loads of energon.

Above, out towards the first moon, a lone freighter weaved and bobbed in an erratic loop, one of its engines blazing steadily while the others flashed and flared in an effort to counteract it. A deep-space hauling ship, it had first signalled its distress on emerging from fold-space some three hecta-cycles earlier. The crew had believed they could get their malfunctioning manoeuvring systems under control without any significant delay and, more importantly, in time to meet their rapidly approaching delivery deadline. Unfortunately for everyone concerned, their optimism had proved unfounded. There was now a real danger that they would smash into the refinery they had intended to dock with on and take it with them to a fiery death in Cybertron's upper atmosphere.

With no one willing to risk allowing a major Vosian task-force to fly up to a point that would give it as clear a view of Tarn as of the crashing freighter, it had fallen to the Defence Directorate to prevent disaster.

"_Target confirmed,"_ Optrion signalled, reflexively crouching as the Air Guardian accelerated beneath him.

"_Relax, boss,"_ it called up, _"I've done this a thousand times before."_

"_Intercepting an out of control space ship?"_

"_Carrying a wheel-basher who's afraid of heights!"_ Laughter echoed in Optrion's head. _"Estimate two cycles to intercept."_

"_Will we be able to match the ship's trajectory properly? I don't like the idea of trying to dock with it tumbling like that..."_

"_Could probably do it,"_ the Air Guardian responded seriously, _"But it's not my favourite plan. Better to get it stabilised first."_

Vieuxuun spoke again before Optrion had the chance to ask if the jet had any ideas on how that might be done. The field commander was addressing the crew of the freighter, his words curt and stern. "_Attention_ Eskaan Var_, we are approaching your position with the intention of rendering assistance. On behalf of the Global Defence Directorate, I am assuming full command of this situation. Please provide an immediate report detailing the status of the malfunctioning systems."_

After the briefest possible hesitation, the freighter captain responded, the accompanying image showing a large, rounded avir with jewelled wings. _"Thank Primus! This is Kavylaniiss of the Eskaan Var...err, err...reporting. We've been unable to get the rogue propulsion unit back under control. There's some sort of corruption in the core command routines. A virus, we think. My engineers can't cut the power, either. The feed lines keep rearranging and we can't disable them without risking igniting the cargo."_

Given that that cargo was fifteen billion atroleedas of crude volatiles, Optrion did not blame the crew for their caution. If the oil in even one of the transport pods caught, it would likely blow the ship apart. With his optics boosted by the shell and routed through the Air Guardian's formidable sensor array, he could see the power lines writhing about around the afflicted engine, evading frantic attempts to deactivate them. The engine kept twisting too, constantly re-aiming the thrust plume to keep the ship heading towards the refinery. Every time the other engines began to reverse the course, the corrupted unit would flare brighter, shift and knock the trajectory back.

"_Options?"_ Vieuxuun demanded, glancing briefly over his shoulder at the rest of the squad.

"_I'm connecting to the _Eshaan Var's_ systems now,"_ said the communications officer clinging to one of the other Air Guardians, _"but I'm not sure I'll be able to do much more than monitor. This is some fragging nasty code – if you'll pardon the expression, sir."_

"_We should detach the cargo pods,"_ Optrion stated flatly, _"Once they're free, we can use the manoeuvring jets to push them clear and safely disable the infected engine. One of the refinery's tugs should be able to hook up with the pods well before they could collide with anything."_

"_It's a good plan, boss," _ Kavylaniiss cut in,_ "but there's a pretty big problem. We shut off most of the command pathways in that section to stop the virus spreading and...err...we can't disengage the clamps. Oh, most of them we can. Just not, err, the ones in that section."_

As any one of those clamps could have held the cargo modules in place no matter how hard the manoeuvring jets were pressed, that was indeed a pretty big problem.

"_We could try disabling the engine without removing the cargo,"_ observed the lead Air Guardian, a tactician nicknamed Contrail, _"If we evacuated the crew and got a clear enough shot –"_

"_Absolutely not,"_ Vieuxuun snapped, _"Under no circumstances can we risk the cargo. Losing that amount of fuel could be disastrous, not just for Vos but for everyone who depends on them for energon."_

"_With respect, commander, that will be nothing to how disastrous it would be if this thing takes out an entire refinery." _Contrail angled himself to give the mech on his back a better view of the offending clamps. _"Our best bet is to fire short bursts of solid projectiles through the housing, puncture the fuel lines completely."_

"_Can you guarantee that won't cause an explosion?"_

"_Well, no, but –"_

"_Then I cannot authorise it."_

"_Errr, sorry,"_ Kavylaniiss broke in, _"But about getting us off the ship before you start shooting it..."_

Optrion stared intently at the freighter. It was in a standard interstellar configuration: the cargo pods arrayed in a long column through the centre, the wedge-shaped command module shielding them at the front, the three radiator booms fanning out behind it, then the ring of power-cores, then the engine modules. Connection shafts ran the length of the ship, holding the components together. The three locked clamps were clearly visible some way in front of the malfunctioning engine. There was nothing obstructing them; indeed, they were positioned on a relatively uncluttered part of the hull, far away from anything that might interfere with their operation.

"_Excuse me, Captain Kavylaniiss?" _His interruption silenced a heated debate about what kind of munitions would be least likely to cause the ship the disintegrate. _"Are the manual releases on the clamps still operational?"_

"_Err...well, I suppose they must be. There's nothing mechanically wrong with anything...but the hatches down there are all non-functional and it'll take a fair while to get someone across the hull..."_

"_Thank you. Commander Vieuxuun, I believe I have a potential solution."_

"_Go on, Lieutenant Commander."_

"_If I can be disembark as close as possible to the ship's hull, while on a near enough similar trajectory, I should be able to use my shell's gravity drive to effect a safe landing and access the clamps by hand. Once they are released, we can proceed as previously discussed."_

Vieuxuun turned to look across the void at him. Optrion could not see his superior's expression behind his shell's protective mask but when he addressed the rest of the squad, it was with incredulity. _"Could that work?"_

"_The inertia on that thing is enormous,"_ Contrail pointed out, _"The gravity drive _might_ be enough to equalise the difference but it will be a hard landing no matter how exact we get the manoeuvring. Still...yes, it could definitely work."_

"_And you are prepared to enact this...solution, Lieutenant Commander?"_

"_I am, sir."_

"_Me too,"_ Optrion's Air Guardian said, dipping his wings before adding, slightly belatedly, _"Sir."_

"_Very well then." _Vieuxuun waved a hand imperiously._ "In the absence of a better solution, permission to proceed with the attempt. Units Three and Four, take up position to recover Optrion should he overshoot."_

"_Thank you,"_ Optrion said on a private channel to his Air Guardian, _"Forgive me, I never asked your name."_

The jet laughed at him again. _"You didn't. It's Aerodyne. Bit less formal than 'Unit Two', yeah? And hey, don't thank me. I think this is crazy and you're about to go splat against the side of that ship, but like the mech said – no one's come up with anything better."_

"_Well then."_ He braced himself against Aerodyne's back, hunkering down between the two great booster engines that the jet used for thrust outside the atmosphere. _"We'd better get on with it."_

Aerodyne pitched and ignited his boosters. Riding a plume of white fire, they dived at the _Eshaan Var_, accelerating and turning until they were flying roughly parallel to the ship, keeping it relatively 'above'. Using his retro thrusters, the Air Guardian started correcting his course over and over, moving ever closer to the hull and ever closer to the point at which their inertial frames would match. Looking up at the rapidly approaching expanse of golden metal, Optrion charged his shell's gravity drive and tried not to think about the momentum of the object he was about to jump on to.

"_Almost got it."_ Aerodyne's voice was taught with concentration. His engines shuddered with exertion.

Optrion bent his legs, preparing to leap. With a whine, the shell's in-built kinetic amplifiers cycled online. The _Eshaan Var_ was a wall now, practically close enough to touch. Aerodyne gave a yell and a last burst of speed. _"NOW!"_

Optrion jumped.

The gravity drive kicked in practically at once, reaching for the _Eshaan Var_'s mass. Almost before he had time to fully process the sensation, he was falling, the hull rising to meet him. Very fast. The drive was reducing his speed, true, but not nearly quickly enough. He swung up his feet, cutting in the shell's shock absorbers.

Just in time.

He slammed into the freighter, or rather, it slammed into him. He cried, not in pain – the shell and his own internal systems saw to that – but simply with the shock of the collision. It felt as though every part of him had been driven backwards, as if he had been flattened by the impact.

For one horrible micro-cycle, he thought he would rebound, floating off, a slab of compacted metal tumbling helplessly into Cybertron's sky. But the shell's magnets had seized hold of the hull and his superstructure had only been jarred, not crushed. Awkwardly, he clambered upright. The buzzing in his head resolved into Vieuxuun's demands for a status report and, below that, Aerodyne's concerned hails. _"Hey! You OK up there?"_

Staggering slightly, Optrion located the nearest clamp, some little way to his left and signalled back. _"Am down and safe. Have sight of first target. Moving to commence disconnection."_

Manually releasing the clamps was, by design, an easy task. He hurried between them, activating oversized gears and levers that laboriously dragged the great brackets back into their housings. Freed from restraint, their manoeuvring jets firing at full power, the cargo pods came free, decelerating into a higher orbit. Its burden lifted, the _Eshaan Var_ began falling faster and the rogue engine's efforts redoubled as whatever had seized control of it realised that it had been deprived of the cargo's explosive potential.

Shots from the waiting Air Guardians pulverised the still-active engine, shearing the wreckage clean off. Abruptly free of its influence, the freighter shot upwards, still unstable but not in any danger of causing a collision. It and its crew could be recovered at the Vosian space-authority's leisure.

Letting out a relieved hiss, battered shell creaking a little, Optrion sank to his knees. Now the pain was starting, the ache of dislocated components and disrupted subsystems welling up inside him.

"_Good work, everyone,"_ Vieuxuun said across the command channel, _"Begin clean-up and prepare to return to base."_

This was followed, more privately, by Aerodyne's cheery voice. _"Coming to pick you up, boss."_ The space jet rose above the horizon of the ship's hull, boosters blazing. _"And hey, but you pulled that off better than I thought you would!"_

Smiling, Optrion laughed weakly and struggled back to his feet. _"Trust me,"_ he sent back,_ "I'm as surprised as you are."_

* * *

><p><strong>The Conclave Chamber<strong>

**The Palace of Law**

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

"The investigation – which remains ongoing – has shown that the virus infecting the _Eshaan Var_ was most likely transmitted from one of the fold-space beacons it used to navigate back into the home system. All the beacons are currently being examined in the hopes of confirming this and discovering who was responsible."

A murmur ran around the table. There was not a mech among them who thought it could have been anyone other than the Tarnians. Sarristec transmitted the latest version of the investigation report to the rest of the Conclave, then continued. "Thanks to the efforts of the Defence Directorate, no harm came to the cargo and it has been transferred to refinery Primon Six. The crew of the ship are, I believe, being held under close observation in case one of them was responsible for the sabotage."

"We do not really expect anything to come of it," Omnitron said conversationally, "It is more a matter of thoroughness."

"Is there any actual hard evidence to show Tarnian involvement?" Vvnet wondered aloud, her fingers playing with the holo-display in front of her.

"We need evidence?" Myyoc made a derisive noise. "It's obvious! They pretend we struck against their infrastructure, then they strike against ours. Typical Tarnian deceit!"

Irritated that his presentation was being hijacked, Sarristec smiled thinly at his fellow Lord. "It is also typical of the Tarnians to make claims backed up by falsified evidence. We should surely strive not to risk falling into similar behaviour."

Myyoc's tail quivered as he looked sharply away, claws shutting tight. Taynset nodded, clearly seconding the rebuke. "Whatever our personal opinions, and however well-founded they may be, this is not a time for rash judgements. We will reserve our official statements until we are certain of our case. Thank you, Lord Sarristec, your attentiveness in this matter remains commendable."

"My Lord." Sarristec settled back, satisfied that his efforts were still being appreciated where it mattered.

Taynset gestured, updating the agenda displays. "We will of course be offering our praise for the gallant Defence Directorate soldiers who saved the cargo. Of particular note are three of the Air Guardians involved who it seems were originally proto-formed in Vos. Now, my Lord Myyoc, kindly enlighten us as to the current state of readiness of our own military forces."

Tail still twitching, Myyoc reared up and projected a series of distribution maps across the table. "Thank you, my Lord. As you can see, we have reinforced our border units and intensified patrols in all out-lying territories. This is mostly merely a matter of form. The bulk of our military forces remain on standby here and here –" He indicated the relevant sectors with a claw. "– though we will shortly be commencing a series of exercises that will reposition them in more strategically important locations. That, however, is not the most important development."

The displays abruptly changed, troop deployment schematics replaced with a full representation of Vos from the air, a beautiful pattern of expanding circles and blade-straight lines. A star-burst of streets and expressways.

Red markers popped up across the map, discs surmounted with vertical lines, above which hovered the unmistakable cross-sections of missile launching bays. Myyoc tapped his claws together. "A few hecta-cycles ago, the upgrades to our primary defence screen were completed. Thanks to Vvnet – and _my Lord Sarristec_ – brokering the appropriate agreements with Tagen, we were able to acquire the latest military-grade camouflage systems with no difficulty. These systems have been fully integrated into our stock of warheads and will, once activated, render the missiles virtually invisible to any interceptors attempting to lock on to them." He snickered unpleasantly. "Whoever it really was who attacked Tarn, we should thank them for field-testing the Divratech sensor baffles for us. We are now extremely confident that should we ever need to launch a full-scale attack, it will strike its target."

Another murmur ran around the table, one of satisfaction. The idea of being able to smite the enemy without them being able to stop you was most appealing. Sarristec imagined the missiles raining down on – and in the privacy of his own thoughts, there was no sense being coy – on Tarn, wiping away its ugliness with a tide of fire, undetectable until it was too late. For the briefest instant, he considered what it would be like to be on the receiving end, to see destruction bearing down on you and be unable to do anything about it... He smiled. A fitting end for those who would threaten Vos.

"Forgive me for pointing out the obvious," Vvnet said, armour flaring a little as she spoke, "But all the sensor baffles in the world are not going to stop an enemy from seeing the missiles coming. They might not be able to shoot them down but they'll be certain to respond to the attack."

Myyoc bristled. "_Naturally_, we have run the simulations and we are reasonably confident that the enemy would be unable to launch a counter-attack in time. And even if it did, our own interceptor grid is more than capable of –"

"My Lords." As usual, Taynset cut through the brewing argument before it could truly begin. "Whether an enemy could react to an attack from us is entirely beside the point. These defences exist so that _we_ may react to an attack by _them_. Let us focus on that."

Chastened once more, Myyoc began detailing the specifics of the planned manoeuvres and their relationship to the upgraded defences. Sarristec tuned him out, internally reviewing the latest energon production figures and how they tallied with the various demands being placed on them. As always, he took a moment to appreciate the number of city-states now drawing their fuel from Vos. So many let down by Tarn, so many reneging on deals struck with Viilon now his thugs occupied Simfur...

Let the military play at war. True victory lay in Sarristec's domain.

* * *

><p><em>Transformers and all associated characters and ideas belong to Hasbro and are used here purely for entertainment purposes.<em>


	28. Manoeuvres

**3.3: Manoeuvres**

**Lord Taynset's Office**

**The Palace of Law**

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

Sarristec was surprised to find that Lord Taynset already had company.

In his experience, and the collective experience of the political establishment, Taynset always received just one visitor at a time. It gave the illusion that he was focusing solely on his guest's business even while his mind constantly considered any number of problems and issues facing Vos. Like all great politicians and leaders – like Sarristec himself – he recognised the importance of the personal touch.

The unexpected guest was a winged mech of unusually angular design and an exceptionally ostentatious gold/bronze colour scheme. He started from his seat when Sarristec entered, optics flying wide. Taynset extended a hand. "Calm yourself, my friend. My lord Sarristec, join us, won't you?"

Inclining his head, he accepted the invitation and crossed the room. "Forgive the interruption, my lord, but I understood you wished to see me urgently..." He trailed off suggestively.

Taynset nodded thoughtfully. "Of course. We were nearly done here in any case." He indicated the angular mech. "I don't believe you and Gellrauon are acquainted?"

"Indeed not." Sarristec put out a hand, which Gellrauon stared at as if it might explode before nervously grasping it. "The recent scandalous claims made against you by the Tarnians have shocked us all. If there is anything I personally might do to help you seek redress, please do not hesitate to ask."

"Th-thank you," the businessmech muttered, withdrawing his hand as soon as he was able.

"As a matter of fact," Taynset interjected, "We were just discussing how it might be advisable for Gellrauon to step out of the public gaze for a while. For his own safety."

"A sound plan, if I may say so."

"Y-yes..." Gellrauon's optics darted too and fro, seeking every corner of the room. He looked as if he expected assassins to jump out from behind the sculptures. "Th-the Tarnians, I – I'm not safe, none of us are safe, but I'm...hn!" He flinched and stifled a cry as a discrete door in the far wall slid open.

"Ah, excellent." Taynset beckoned a diminutive grey mech through the doorway. "As we discussed, I have arranged for transport to take you to a specially prepared safe-house."

The grey mech bowed briefly. "If you will accompany me, sir, there is a shuttle waiting."

Sarristec examined him covertly, more out of habit than anything else. The mech had every appearance of a lowly functionary. Everything about him was drab and unremarkable. Including, oddly, his energy signature. It was strangely muted, almost _too_ small even for someone so compact.

Gellrauon did not seem to notice. He nodded jerkily to Taynset, glanced fearfully at Sarristec, the statues and the room in general, and then allowed himself to be led meekly to the door. The functionary stepped back to let him go first, bowed again to the Lords, and followed the businessmech through. The door sealed up behind them, becoming lost in the shape of the wall.

"A tedious mech," Taynset said conversationally, moving to pour out two small goblets of energon, "But undoubtedly a patriot and an influential enough member of the business community."

"And with good reason to fear for his life," Sarristec offered cautiously.

"Perhaps. Certainly I am not willing to put it to the test. More importantly, he needs to be kept safely away from anyone who might want to find out whether he really did order the attack on Tarn."

The older mech handed across one of the goblets, which Sarristec accepted graciously. "Thank you, my Lord. If I might ask...do you believe he did?"

Taynset smiled, looking sidelong at his junior. "A dangerous question. One to which my answer does not matter. The issue is what is _perceived_ to be the case, not what actually happened."

Sarristec bowed his head, recognising his mistake. He had allowed familiarity to get the better of political sense. "Of course, my Lord."

Taynset flexed his wings, the blue half-diamonds flicking wide in a sweeping shrug. "Between ourselves, his fear of Tarn is great enough that I could believe it of him, though he denies it now. As I said, it does not matter. The Tarnians believe it was him, or say they do, and are acting accordingly."

This statement held an air of finality and Sarristec knew that the topic was to be closed. He sipped his energon, complimented his host on the distillation and asked, "And how is it that I may serve you, my Lord?"

"Ah yes." Taynset looked briefly to the city beyond the great windows. The towers around them shone with light, visible and ultra-violet as well as infra-red. Unlike those who mismanaged their resources or squandered them on the purely functional, Vos was as beautiful at night as it was during the day, a beacon of civilisation and culture.

"Lord Myyoc's plans to bolster our defences are not quite as complete as he would have us believe. He is thorough, yes, but his perspective is narrow. He has not considered that the Civic Guard retains a presence in Vos, however handicapped we have kept it."

Sarristec frowned thoughtfully. "You believe they would try and stop us mobilising properly?"

"They would at the very least report any unusual activity to their superiors. That alone could feed compromising evidence to Viilon's agents. Worse is the possibility that they could intercede to prevent us taking necessary action against Tarn. It is bad enough that the Defence Directorate has turned its anarchist-hunting squads around to face us. Having the Magnus' spies actually within our borders will...complicate matters." Taynset lifted his goblet but did not drink. "I am sure you have heard the rumours of standing Civic Guard protocols permitting them to disable long-range weaponry that could be used against another state."

"Which would not be a problem if we could guarantee they would stop Tarn using such weaponry," Sarristec mused.

"Quite." Taynset sipped then nodded. "Viilon is capable of great deceit and he controls his city absolutely. There might as well not be a Civic Guard presence in Tarn at all, for they certainly would be incapable of preventing him from attacking us."

"Then we must be free to act without their interference as well."

"That is the conclusion I had reached."

"But we cannot just expel them or demand that they be removed." Sarristec began to appreciate the true shape of the problem. "That would be an affront to the Council and would alienate our allies."

"I can see no politic means of effecting their removal," Taynset admitted, "Reducing their energy allocation any further would be tantamount to trying to dismiss them from the city. Administrative blocks would have little effect in the middle of a crisis. The system itself sees to that. We have no means of acting directly against them."

As he said that, a thought occurred to Sarristec. An image of white and blue figures being swamped in a tide of angry workers, riot shields failing before furious assaults. "We do not," he said carefully, "But the people do. The people of Vos, if they knew how the Civic Guard threatened their safety, they could do what we cannot."

Taynset glanced at him sharply, then understanding dawned across his features. "I see...yes...could it be done?"

Sarristec remembered a grateful Workmaster in Union One Four Three and an eager promise of loyalty. "I believe so, my Lord."

"Then there is nothing more to say." Taynset drained his goblet.

Inwardly glowing with the responsibility and trust that was being placed upon his undoubtedly deserving shoulders, Sarristec finished his own energon with relish.

* * *

><p><strong>Four Majesties Plaza<strong>

**Crystal District**

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

Feeling incredibly self-conscious, Aratron tried desperately to look like he belonged with the elegant people gliding across the great, glittering square. It was no good. His gangly silver body was hopelessly out of place among the fine-tuned blues and golds of the Elite around him. The looping streets and crystalline mansions were their world, not his – he was an unwanted intrusion from somewhere beneath their attention.

He huddled a little further into the shadow of Nova Prime's statue and wished for the three-thousandth time that Gauun had picked a more private meeting place. _Why_ he had chosen the Crystal District in the first place baffled Aratron. Neither of them belonged there. Even with all his ambition and pretensions, there was no way Gauun could believe he fitted in with the businessmechs and idle rich casually sunning themselves on the plaza. This was...another world. Where people had dozens of rooms to themselves, not just a single habitation pod each. Where you emerged from a Birthing Well alone, not with a batch of ten or twenty more just like you. Where you looked at a statue of a past Prime and recognised their design elements in yourself.

Aratron looked up at the over-sized golden version of Nova Prime, with his sleek body and ornate armour, and tried to imagine the power and grace that must have come with such a frame. There was nothing like that in his own dull, ordinary body. Nothing like that in most people's bodies, really. It wasn't just a matter of modification: bolting on extra components often just left you weighed down by the improvements, so that you no longer seemed to fit together quite right. You had to start out with it, to have that potential from the moment you were protoformed. Like flyers. They came online with the potential to defy gravity and it set them apart. For as long as he had been a body-worker, Aratron had wanted to work on jets. He wasn't stupid enough to think being close to them would make him like them, but to have a hand in shaping a body that could just step into the air and fly away was too fascinating to resist. The Elite understood that, he suspected. That was why they were so jealous of their Line Wells, why they spent so much time and money fashioning themselves into sleeker forms. They chased perfection because they could. They could afford to.

Was that why the statues of the four Praxian Primes stood there at the heart of the city? A challenge? Seeing them in pictures, Aratron had sometimes wondered if that was the effect they had when you saw them in person. Now he was actually here –

"There you are!" Gauun's slap on the back made him stagger. His friend was beaming and...sparkling. Every part polished and gleaming.

Aratron felt a bit annoyed that he hadn't come to Racetrack's to get it done. "Where have you been? I've been standing here for ages."

Gauun waved vaguely at thin air. "It took a little longer than I thought it would."

"_What did_?"

"Oh! Didn't I tell you? I've just been organising a new contract with a high ranking member of the Ina Line."

"Ina?" Aratron frowned. "As in _Avir_ Ina? I thought they were in mining?"

"Yeah, that's how the line made its money, obviously, but this guy's more interested in racing than rocks, so he branched out. He owns three teams on the big circuits now and they say he's going to buy at least one more before next season!"

"And this matters to me because...?"

"Because I'm working for him!" The way Gauun spread his arms wide was probably supposed to show that this was the best thing to have happened to anyone since the First Prime lit the Matrix Flame.

"Oh," Aratron said eventually, as flatly as he could.

"Oh?" Gauun repeated in confusion, "_Oh_? Is that all you can say? I say I'm working for one of the biggest individual sports financiers on the planet and you just say 'oh'?!"

"Yes."

"Oh."

Gauun suddenly clapped his hands. "Oh!" he said again, with much more vigour, "I didn't tell you, did I? Before I went to see him – he asked me to come up personally and show off any new designs I was working on, especially ones for racers, obviously – I sort of swore to myself that if I got the job, I'd try and get you work too – and I did! One of his regular bodywork mechs has just gone under, so there's an opening and he says if you're half as good as my recommendation, you're on –"

"Hey! Wait a cycle!" A hot edge of fury made Aratron's voice shoot up louder than he had mean it too. He took an angry step forward, doing what he could to loom over the mech in front of him. Which was stupid, because they were pretty much the same height but he didn't care. "I told you I wasn't going to just walk out on Racetrack. I owe him and I like him and there's no way I'm leaving him just because you're sparking off with some high-grade flapper-mapper –"

He stopped, as much for Gauun's look of utter astonishment as for the realisation that he was shouting in the middle of Four Majesties Plaza. On the edge of his vision, he caught a guardsmech eyeing him coolly, obviously judging how serious a threat the raving labourer was going to be to the safety of the district's more refined inhabitants.

"I meant Racetrack and you," Gauun told him, waving frantically, "Racetrack's Precision Bodywork – hired to work at the, uh, race tracks! I know he doesn't do much of that stuff any more, but he always used to and you're really, really good, and I know Maksiina will see that if he gets the chance, and I know the shop hasn't been doing so good lately, and since you won't actually let me give you anything for free, I thought if I did this it would help, and...and...and there isn't really anything else, so I really hope you're not still going to hit me."

"I wasn't going to hit you," Aratron told him, hoping it wasn't a lie. The surge of anger and – yes, envy that had caught him completely off balance. How long had he been keeping _that_ from getting out? "I...that...that sounds like a really good idea."

"You sound really surprised about that!"

"I am!" Aratron slumped a little and pressed his hands to his face. "You didn't have to do it. It'd be a real help. I mean, I'd have to clear it with Racetrack. But given the way he talks about the old days, he'll probably jump at the chance. It's just..."

"It's just that I'm a thoughtless loser who never does anything for his friends."

"I never said that."

"You really didn't have to. And it's true. I don't do enough for you when I can. So this time I did." Gauun stretched his arms wide and twirled on the spot. "Because I could. Because I wanted to. Because..." He looked down at his feet. "Because you're my friend and I want to help you out. And this is the only way I could think of doing it that you'd accept. You wouldn't leave Racetrack, you wouldn't just take money, so...this."

For the first time in far too long, Aratron smiled widely and genuinely. "Sometimes, I think you might actually be half as clever as you think you are."

"Hah!" Gauun waved a dismissive hand. "The real reason was I knew how jealous you'd get if I spent all day working on those racers by myself. You know how slick and sleek they all are."

"Your new boss doesn't mind your delusions, then?"

"Oh, I think he appreciates a smooth frame just as much as I do. You should have seen how excited he got about my latest designs –"

"Oy! You two!"

A broad, square-faced mech was marching towards them, wheels twitching inside his chest. When he was sure he had their attention, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at a group of people gathered around a nearby public network terminal. "Will you keep it down?" he demanded, "This is important!"

"So important you can't be bothered to switch to internal for it?" Gauun shot back, but Aratron put a hand on his arm.

"Sorry," he said to the other mech, "We were just leaving. Come on." He started dragging his friend away.

The square-faced mech nodded curtly and turned back to the network terminal. It was projecting images into the air around the crowd, pictures streaming in on the regional newsfeed. As they passed, Aratron looked closer to see what the fuss was about.

"_...forces in Simfur detected and prevented sabotage by suspected Vosian agitators,"_ a flat, emotionless voice was saying over pictures of the Tarnian flag,_ "It is probable that they infiltrated the city by travelling in one of the trading convoys passing along the border. As a consequence, no trading convoys from Vos or its allied states will be permitted to pass through the Simfur Divide until further notice." _From the looks on the faces of the people watching, and the massively in-depth analyses that were already spinning off from the footage, this was a serious development.

"Hey, Wheels? Want to get some oil before we head back?" Gauun asked, twisting out of Aratron's grip and into vehicle mode.

With a last worried glance at the newsfeed, Aratron transformed as well, rocking on his axels in a distracted shrug. "It's a bit too high-grade round here for me."

"Hey, if we're going to be working for Maksiina, we'd better get used to high-grade living!"

"I don't think he's going to be inviting the hired panel beaters to the victory parties."

"From what I hear, he's very generous when he wins!"

"Maybe he is, but you and me aren't the kind of people who look right in high-grade oilhouses. Well, I'm not. You get all polished up again and people might not notice you're just a Mech Un."

"Funny. But hey, look, what does that matter? It's not like they can just turn away paying customers."

"Yes they can."

"Well, yes, obviously they can, but it'd be a bit stupid when everyone's complaining about not having enough customers."

"I don't think that's a problem around here."

"Look, can you just stop bringing up problems with my perfectly reasonable suggestion that we exchange good money for better oil while we have the chance?"

"The last time you took me to a high-end oilhouse, I got tossed over a cliff."

"Oh, you have to keep bringing that up, don't you? Anyway, they threw me over too!"

"Exactly."

And, bickering as only friends could, they set off on the long drive back down to the merchant districts.

* * *

><p><strong>Regional Newsfeed<strong>

**Lakatera Region**

**Cybertron**

"_Merchant groups have reacted angrily to the blockade, which they say is a politically motivated attempt to control goods traffic through the Qosho region. Many have claimed that the any security breaches are due to factions within Simfur antagonistic to the Tarn-backed provisional government and have denied any connection to trading convoys travelling through the area. So far, Tarn has refused to provide documentary evidence of its claims, citing recent alleged attempts by Civic Guard officers to conceal evidence of sabotage against Tarnian interests._

"_Vos has categorically denied any involvement in recent incidents within Simfur. Spokesmechs have reiterated the position that the Tarnian military presence in Simfur is illegal and a direct provocation of the surrounding states. It is believed that Emirate Graviitus will bring a direct complaint before the High Council in the next few days._

"_Investigations in the recent near-collision at a Vosian orbital fuel refinery have revealed that the freighter_ Eshaan Var _was deliberately infected with an override virus as it entered the home system. The virus was relayed via a official guidance beacon though the point of origin for the signal remains unknown. A detailed forensic analysis of the virus has indicated that it was highly advanced and contained military-grade coding. This has led some to speculate that it may have been the work of professional cyber-warfare operatives._

"_Meanwhile in sports news, the forthcoming Golden League Tournament in Polyhex will go ahead, despite earlier fears that it would have to be cancelled due to civil unrest in the city. Large numbers of workers in the city's smelting fields had been threatening direct action amidst calls for better pay. However, a recent deal has defused the situation sufficiently for the tournament to go ahead. Taking place over three days, the event will see reigning champion 'Big Red' facing off against regional challengers in a series of gladiatorial matches. Tickets will go on sale in the next ten deca-cycles and it is expected that the two hundred thousand seat Vraoheln Stadium will be packed to capacity."_

"_Additional Defence Directorate forces have been dispatched to Heskaton in the Malhensi System following major seismic activity at one of the joint Kalis-Hexima mining facilities on the planet. It is now believed that three of the four drilling platforms have been compromised and are in danger of collapse..."_


	29. Desperate Measures

**3.4: Desperate Measures**

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

"I'm sorry Emirate, but the Prime is not holding audiences today."

The guard did not sound in the least bit apologetic. In fact, there was a faint edge of satisfaction in the refusal. Xaaron suspected this was a natural consequence of having to stand around all day guarding a pair of doors and acting with respectful deference to a lot of pompous diplomats. He would probably have taken immense pleasure in being able to frustrate their endeavours as well.

"I was assured that the Prime would speak to me," he wheedled, trying to sound as if he had believed it at the time. "This is an extremely important matter and it cannot wait." That was easier to say with conviction. With every passing day, the High Council was splitting further and further into the Vos and Tarn camps. "I am certain that the Prime is aware of the magnitude of the issues I need to discuss with him." Not that Sentinel had shown any inclination to actually do anything about it. He preferred, it seemed, to sit in silence and stare over the Council's collective heads. "Even a few cycles of discussion could be extremely useful." More like vital, but that might have sounded like desperate exaggeration.

A handful of states had rallied behind Nova Cronum and Iacon in calling for calm and compromise. It made no difference to the screaming matches between Graviitus and Haacano. Pitched battles raged in every Council session, the opposing armies hurling insults and legal quibbles at one another with unparalleled enthusiasm. Throughout it all, the Prime remained aloof and unmoved. He barely bothered to demand order any more. A few measly calls for consolation and understanding were the sum total of his contribution to halting the impeding crisis and Xaaron strongly doubted that the honoured Emirates for Vos and Tarn had even been paying attention. They were far too caught up in mentally rehearsing their next tirades to heed platitudes.

A loud, firm declaration from the Prime might not actually put an end to the feud but it would go a long way to cooling it down. And if Xaaron had to batter down every door in the Celestial Temple to get that declaration, he would just have to do so.

That plan, unfortunately, did not factor in battering down guardsmechs as well.

"I am sorry, Emirate," the mech repeated, large wing-plates fanning out in a slightly threatening manner, "We cannot permit you to enter. The Prime is not to be disturbed. When he opens his chambers to audiences again, you will be informed. In the meantime, I am afraid I must ask you to leave."

Xaaron ran through a thousand arguments, ranging from reasonable to insult-riddled. He looked up into guard's engraved mask and knew that each would be as pointless as the last.

"Thank you for your assistance," he grated, jerking in a sharp bow, "I will return at a more appropriate time." He spun on his heel and marched away, the golden floor ringing with every furious step. It was almost too much to believe, that the Prime would deliberately retreat to his inner sanctum while the great alliance of city-states faltered around him and lurched towards...towards...

War. Xaaron felt something inside him shudder at the word. Old images, memories of ruins and flames filled his thoughts. But that had been in Tarn, confined, more or less, to one ravaged state. There had been no real, open conflict between two separate states since the days before the High Council. Petty squabbles, border disputes, all manner of underhanded interference in internal affairs – but not open war. Not two armies brazenly crossing recognised boundaries with hostile intent.

A horrifying scenario. After all, modern warfare had come a long way since Helix Magnus led the charge across the Primon Flats swinging a battle hammer.

Xaaron eased his hands out of fists and ran through everything he had done so far and the pitifully small difference it had made. And now he could not even count on the Prime, with the full glory of the Matrix Flame and the Covenants at his back, to step down from his tower and lend a few words to the cause.

He stopped. He stared at the statues at the end of the corridor, the figures of past glories rearing up above the intersection.

There was another way. The same tactic from another source, one with a vested interest in keeping things stable. Perhaps not as authoritative, maybe not as effective, but definitely more approachable.

Dionaat had fallen into step behind him some while ago, respectfully silent while his Emirate fumed. Xaaron turned to him now, a slow smile creeping across his mouth grill. "I am going to need transport to the Qosho region. Preferably fast."

* * *

><p><strong>Defence Directorate Command Platform<strong>

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Cybertron**

Megatron stalked around the edge of the map, considering the lay of the land. Vos curved with the coastline, following the arc of the Iron Sea, then swept inland, towers and minarets eventually giving way to gently rising slopes. The Kahlian Ridge cut northwards from the sea, as clear a division as the edges of a continental plates. Beyond the ridge, Tarn squatted in neat, geometrical patterns, streets and express-ways as precisely constructed as those in Vos but with none of the artistic flare. Functional buildings in functional rows, the architecture well matched with the vast industrial complexes that ringed the city.

The Mahlex District stood out as a blacked hole, an ugly stain on the picture of scientific precision.

Icons swarmed in the spaces between the two ancient cities, troops moving in waves as first one army then the other tried to guess where best to be. A constant influx of information from scouts and monitoring stations kept the map up-to-date and filled the war room with a background mutter of quietly exchanged messages, murmured analyses and humming calculation. The sounds filled the air, ceaseless and restless, rising and falling with moments of excitement and long stretches of monotony.

Like the audience before a fight.

The thought made Megatron want to strike his fist against the projector table. He was badly suited to watching from the sidelines. He yearned to stride in and _do something_. Standing by while others made mistakes was torture, always had been. In the pits he could have strode in and taken matters quickly into his own hands. Here, he was trapped outside the ring, unable even to shout down the idiots.

All that effort, all those mechs and machines, and for what? To waste precious fuel on securing the dominance of one set of petty fools over another? How could they not see the ruin that they would create, the harm they would do Cybertron?

Mega-cycles of hatred and mistrust, until the reasons were forgotten or reinvented as excuses. Anger and suspicion reinforced in every protoform until it was all but hard-wired into them. That was how. He had gotten out. He had seen the bigger picture, had seen threats to the world that made borders and ancient grudges seem trivial by comparison. But there was a time when he would have welcomed a war between Vos and Tarn. A chance, finally, to prove that Tarn was the stronger and in the right. No doubt that was what all those hundreds of soldiers thought as they scuttled across the map, making great shows of defiance.

If only he could force them to see what he saw.

Scowling at the map, he stabbed a finger towards one of the confirmed Vosian missile sites, a blazing red circle ringed with guard battalions. "Simultaneous disruptor strikes to that silo and the Trasvehl Advanced Base. Take out Vos' outer launching facilities." A layer of the map peeled upwards, duplicate icons flashing and scattering as the strategy playing out. Vosian patrols panicked and streaked after the intruding Defence Directorate forces, peeling away from their allotted perches.

"Disrupting the Tarnian installations won't be as easy," Bentwing said from the other side of the map, gesturing. A miniature flight of Air Guardians skimmed Tarn's outer defences, warning symbols blazing as they tried to block missile launches and were forced back by a maze of anti-aircraft guns.

"We'll end up shooting down missiles in flight," Optrion pointed out, using his own input into the map to demonstrate this. "Which is possible."

"But not certain," Megatron growled as dozens of purple daggers weaved through the red arrows trying to blow them apart.

He stood back, folding his arms. As ever, on the edge of his perception, he sensed Ravage's presence, a second shadow filtering the colossal influx of data from the front. The commanders around the table – Optrion, Bentwing, Cascade, two of Vieuxuun's mechs – looked expectantly at him.

"Move the Air Guardian staging ground twenty hix to the south and deploy the slower squadrons at the extreme edge of the neutral territory. That will get better coverage of the airspace." He paused, then added, "Camouflaged interceptor batteries. They won't be as effective as jets but they can cover any gaps."

"If Razortail takes half the light flyers and sets up camp in the west," Bentwing suggested, "that would improve the distribution even further."

"Can you maintain effectiveness like that?"

"Hm. Yes. Should be able to. If we split out some of the scout planes and –"

"Commander Megatron!"

Vieuxuun's voice boomed over the background muttering, sharp and definitely irritated. The green field commander strode determinedly across the war room, his face contorting. Megatron looked at him but did not speak. He was dimly aware of Ravage moving closer. The squad leaders and lieutenant commanders saluted smartly. Vieuxuun noticed neither, his attention fixed on the map and its glimmering tactical overlays. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

"Strategy planning. A normal function of a military operation. These officers were providing their input on the best way to use the forces at our disposal."

"That is not –" Stopping short, he glanced around with a grimace. "I would like a word with you in private, commander."

"If you have something important to say about the proposals on the table, _commander,_ I would prefer you said it here in front of the mechs expected to carry out our decisions."

For a micro-cycle or two, Megatron was sure that Vieuxuun would insist on privacy or back down for fear of looking bad in front of his troops. But instead, he draw himself up. "Very well. This is pertinent to everyone assigned to the operation so it probably would be as well to have it said openly." He half turned away from Megatron, the better to proclaim to the room at large. "We are here to represent the High Council. Our presence is a reminder to Vos and to Tarn that they have responsibilities to Cybertron at large and that action will be taken should they break the Inter-State Accords. In the discharge of that duty, however, we remain bound to those same Accords. Vos and Tarn are sovereign city-states. Without the express order of the Council, we cannot engage Vosian and Tarnian forces. Without the Council's authority, we cannot deploy long range weaponry along their borders. If there is even a hint that we are not behaving in a manner expected of the Defence Directorate, it could undermine any and every political effort to calm the situation down. Need I remind you all how the efforts of the Civic Guard have been twisted into anti-Council propaganda?" He thumped a fist into his open palm. "We are here to discourage rash action while the diplomats do their job. We are most certainly not here to prepare a full-scale attack on two of the oldest cities on Cybertron!"

His speech made, Vieuxuun flicked a hand firmly across the map, dispersing the tactical overlays in a gesture of finality. He turned back to Megatron, chin jutting. Megatron looked at him with a flat expression, his optics simmering orange. "And if it comes to war?" he asked, frigidly calm, "If the missiles start flying? Will you wait for the Council to give you permission to stop a massacre?"

"No one wants a war, Megatron," Vieuxuun explained, patronisingly patient, "Anyone who started one would be acting not just against the Accords but against the First Covenant. They would be condemned before the Prime and would lose any support from their allies. It would be an act without reason."

No one spoke. Megatron's hands flexed. Tearing Vieuxuun in two would be the work of a moment. He pictured the act exactly, in every detail, down to the feel of the green armour as it buckled and broke apart. His fingers twitched again as imagined electricity arced between them. "This. Is. Not. Iacon," he snarled. The words came in time to the punches he was throwing in his mind, each a vicious, joint-shattering blow. "You think that because _you_ believe in the divinity of the Primes and the wisdom of the Council and the Inter-State Accords, that everyone else must as well?" Of course he did, the blind fool. _Jab. Crunch._ "No one in Tarn gives a flying glitch about the Council and the Vosians would sooner break every Accord ever written than give up one fraction of their power." _Jab. Crunch._ "I _know_ these people. They do not care about the Prime or the Covenants. All they see is the enemy across the border, the threat that needs to be dealt with, by any means necessary." _Jab. Crunch._ "They will not stop because you think they are being _unreasonable_."

_Vieuxuun's head tore free in his hands, optics dying, neck sparking emptily. He raised the broken skull and the crowd roared his triumph for him._

Vieuxuun's faceplates shifted, his optics narrowing. If he had been annoyed before, he was angry now. Even so, he tried to hide it. Megatron could see him scrambling for dignity and self-justification, the way people like him always did. They could never just give in to their rage. They had to convince themselves they were right first. Had to be sure they would win in the correct way.

"It is clear we disagree," Vieuxuun grated eventually, "And while I understand your perspective on this issue, our orders and our duty remain unchanged. There will be no further talk of moving disguised batteries to the border and I would appreciate it if you included me in any future strategy sessions."

Megatron opened his mouth but Ravage cut smoothly across him. "Commander... _Commanders_, I have a priority signal that I think demands your attention."

Without waiting for instruction, he switched the main projectors to a communications feed. Static-riddled images of hundreds of mechs shouting and screaming at a Vosian building sprang up, a full-blown riot seen from a dozen different angles. Another image appeared in the centre, a panicked hexe in Civic Guard white and blue speaking rapidly to the camera. "*!&^*&–under siege! All guardsmechs have been recalled but we–!£&^^"$!**&*–hold out – they've started attacking anyone who tries to get out–!£^%&(**&–no help from Vosian security, no way to get –"

The communication cut out abruptly. Megatron spun on his heel and shouted to the nearest technician. "Get them back, now! Find out what's happening and how it started! Ravage, link me to the Magnus' Office. Bentwing, Optrion – get me extraction options for the Vosian Civic Guard base. Can we access it by air?"

"The Air Guardians have the biggest cargo capacity of our present compliment of flyers," Vieuxuun stated, moving to examine the map as it refocused on a single Vosian district, "But we must consider the political ramifications of sending in an extraction team." He looked up. "Connect me to the Vosian security authority," he instructed, "I'll find out how much resistance we can expect."

He caught Megatron's optic. The anger and mistrust was still there, clear as a loaded gun. The argument was not over. Megatron nodded all the same and turned his attention back to the map without a second glance.

In his head, the crowd bayed with disappointment at a fight left unfinished. But he cast them aside and focused his mind on the battle at hand.

* * *

><p><strong>Civic Guard Base<strong>

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

A few cycles ago, they had started throwing building supplies. Panels and pipes ricochetted off walls and armoured shutters and filled the air with a din that threatened to match the shouting for ferocity. One enterprising group of heavy lifters found some waste oil and set fire to it, carrying it high into the air and flinging it down at the tower's upper windows. Others were using their on-board holo-projectors to paint obscene messages in the air or to highlight particularly energetic protesters as they thundered out their rage.

The Civic Guardsmechs huddled behind their barriers, any effort to appeal to their assailants' better nature long since given up. Once or twice, someone had tried to make a dash through the crowds, probably to try and find out why the Vosian security forces were not answering their calls for help. They had been forced back before they had managed more than a dozen steps, pelted with scrap and struck by any blunt instrument that could reach them. Any white and blue mech trying to get in from elsewhere in the city received an identical reception.

It could not have been going better if Sarristec had planned it all himself.

He had been tempted to give instructions to Hothouse and the other workmasters who owed him favours, but his better judgement had prevailed. Better by far simply to plant the suggestion that the Civic Guard had compromised Vos' security. Of course he had not incited them to go out and riot. No Lord of Vos would do such a thing. He had just called for their vigilance. Their help in ensuring the safety of their fellow citizens. If they had come away with idea that the Civic Guard was in league with the Tarnians, that too was a regrettable misunderstanding on their part. All he had said was that those appointed by the Council might not be paying attention to Vos' best interests in the execution of their duty. That they might not make the right decisions as Tarnian aggression threatened everything that Vos had strived to achieve.

This rioting was contemptible, the worst possible reaction to something that was little more than a vicious rumour. But even though that went without saying, it had to be admitted that the Conclave could not ignore such a violent public reaction. The Lords governed by the people's will and if that will had turned against the Council's appointed representatives...

It was regrettable. It was a shame. It was of course no reflection on the Council itself. But what could they do? The people had spoken.

Loudly.

In some cases with their fists.

Sarristec allowed himself a small smile and settled back to enjoy the show.

* * *

><p><strong>Defence Directorate Staging Ground<strong>

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Cybertron**

"Make certain your weapon packs are powered down. The Vosians _will_ turn you back if they detect active weaponry." Vieuxuun seemed more than a little absurd, shouting orders up at the towering Air Guardians. Contrail and Aerodyne were each about six times his height and their wingspans made them look even bigger. They obeyed him without question though, swiftly pulling the power-packs from their inbuilt cannons and shrugging off some of their detachable weapons.

"They're gonna be sitting targets if tha Vosians turn on 'em," Ironhide muttered from Optrion's left, fingering his own rifle.

"They have the speed to get out of there if they need to," Optrion pointed out, "Besides, both of them were protoformed in Vos, and the Vosian authorities know it. They have public image on their side."

Ironhide made a noise that indicated just how much time he had for political concerns like that. Optrion could not blame him. The situation had seemed bizarre even before their two field commanders had had an open row about it. Now it felt ridiculous. He could see Megatron moving restlessly up and down the landing strip, glowering at everything that moved and occasionally flipping in to tank mode to glare along his barrels at the horizon and its crown of spires.

If he was honest, Optrion felt like doing the same thing. Perhaps it would have relieved the tension of not knowing if there was going to be a battle or not. Then again, looking at Megatron, he rather suspected it wouldn't. The extraction team was assembled on the runway now, eight mechs, three large avirs and four femes, all armed with nothing more than deflection shields and grappling hooks. It made sense yet it was hard not to think of the size of the crowds around the Civic Guard base and how small and unprotected the group seemed by comparison.

Megaton suddenly charged across to join the team. Vieuxuun saw it and ran to intercept him, the Air Guardians catching up in a few, massive strides. The two field commanders exchanged angry, muted words, and then Megatron tossed down his rifle, followed by several of his tank barrels. He stared defiantly at Vieuxuun, who shook his head in disbelief.

Megatron shouted an order up at the waiting Air Guardians and, exchanging a single glance, they transformed, mighty engines blazing into life. They swept in lazy arcs and lowered their access ramps. The extraction team split up, Megatron waiting until they were all in before following the group that had boarded Contrail. Vieuxuun shouted one last time, accusing him of disregarding protocol and endangering the operation. It had no effect. Megatron vanished inside and the ramp slammed shut behind him.

"Shoulda gone too," Ironhide grumbled, optics following the huge white jets as they rose and banked towards Vos.

"You can't fly and there's a limit to how many passengers they'll be able to carry back. In fact," Optrion added with a frown, "Megatron's mass might compromise the operation anyway."

Vieuxuun came storming back towards the command platform. Optrion saluted as he drew near and the field commander slammed to a halt, optics narrowed to slits. "_What_?" Optrion took a step backwards, perplexed. Then Vieuxuun turned away. "Say that again," he ordered, obviously speaking into an open communication channel, "When?"

Whatever was said, it made him throw up his arms, though he caught himself halfway through the motion. He looked around wildly, then fixed on Optrion. "Lieutenant Commander! I have just been informed that the Emirate for Nova Cronum has chosen to pay an unannounced visit to the Qosho region. He will be landing in four cycles. You will take a small contingent of troops and escort him to the Tava Szenda birthing well. Once his business is concluded, you will see that he returns safely to Iacon. I hardly need stress," he stressed emphatically, an edge in his voice, "that he is to treated with the utmost respect and deference due to his position."

"Of course sir," Optrion agreed, saluting again, "I will see to it immediately."

"Very good." Vieuxuun offhandedly returned the salute and disappeared into the command platform.

Optrion frowned after him. "Today just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it?"

"The boss-mechs layin' inta one another, Vos Civic Guard under siege an' now a slaggin' Emirate come ta drop in an' visit?" Ironhide shook his head in disbelief. "Ah don't know 'bout you but ah'm expectin' a meteor strike by sundown."


	30. Divine Intervention

**3.5: Divine Intervention**

**Tava Szenda Birthing Well**

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

Xaaron was not at all what Optrion had expected.

He _looked_ like an Emirate, emblazoned with the lustrous gold and silver of his rank, and he presented himself with the easy confidence of someone used to high office. At the same time, he was...small. A middling-sized tank with an antiquated military exo-structure and the sort of mouth grill that had once been favoured by Tarnian soldiers – physically, there was nothing especially awe-inspiring about him. He bore no ornamentation and had made no effort to disguise his original function or form. Used as he was to the High Council being a grand, distant concept, Optrion found it disconcerting to come face to face with a Council member who was only a colour scheme away from any other veteran commanding officer.

"Good of you to be here to meet me, Lieutenant Commander." He greeted Optrion warmly, saluting smartly as he stepping down from the transport, "I apologise for the inconvenience. I did try to avoid you but my transport was challenged by your guards and thought it best not to lie about his cargo."

"That's quite all right, sir," Optrion reassured him, "We are here to assist you in any way you require."

"Very kind of you." Xaaron clapped his hands. "Well, let's not waste any time."

He walked past the squad lined up at attention and stared down into the canyon before them. Far below, the lake of proto-matter glinted in the sunlight, swirling sluggishly from side to side. The temple sat on the far shore, a collection of buildings that looked more like filigree than architecture. Tiny figures moved through bridges and cloisters with sombre grace, intent on mysterious errands.

"I hope they let us in," Xaaron muttered, apparently to himself. He turned and transformed, shifting shape with evident difficulty. His panels and levers ground against one another, not quite fitting together properly. Optrion had heard of symptoms like that caused by age but had never met anyone old to suffer from them. It took Xaaron several micro-cycles get get fully into tank form, and a few more for his drive systems to properly engage. The entire squad was in vehicle mode by then. They fell in behind Xaaron as he drove on to the great ramp that wound down into the canyon, Optrion just behind the Emirate.

"Do they know you are coming, sir?" he asked, wondering if they were going to have to stand guard while the old mech argued with the gatekeepers.

"I sent a message ahead requesting an audience. I have not received any reply. So far."

"You intend just showing up at the gate?"

"That tends to be the easiest way to gain admittance to somewhere." Light, good humoured sarcasm. "And this is important, Lieutenant Commander. We do not have time for perfect social niceties." Harder words, brooking no argument.

Optrion kept quiet and followed Xaaron down.

* * *

><p>Close to, the Birthing Well was alive with waves and shapes. The road leading to the temple gates skirted the very edge of the pool and Xaaron found it hard not to become mesmerised by the half-formed patterns that writhed and surged through the silver mass. Was that how the Circuit Masters had started out? Had they stared so long into the proto-matter, looking for order in the primordial chaos, that they had forgotten how to look away?<p>

A cynic might claim that was why the Order of the Dai existed: that the Circuit Masters, supposed guardians of the Birthing Wells, were so lost in their own deep and meaningful thoughts that the actual duty of defending the unborn generations had to fall on others. But of course there was more to it than that. True, the Order stood guard against outside threat, but it was the Circuit Masters who cared for and cultivated the Wells. They intimately understood the proto-matter – how it ebbed and flowed, when it was ready to be energised, the best moment to stamp a template upon it. That was their science and their art: the shaping of life. Obsessive focus upon such a task was surely forgiveable.

Two members of the Order stood guard at the temple gates, a mech and a hexe. Both held their swords ready as the little column of troops approached. Anyone coming towards the temple was always presumed hostile until proven otherwise. The merest sign of aggression and they were honour bound to retaliate until the offender was a smouldering heap of spare parts. Many jokes had been made about the Order's inflexibility but that single-minded devotion to duty had kept the Birthing Wells safe through countless wars, major and minor. They had stood firm in the face of strife and upheaval that had shattered governments and torn up alliances.

Xaaron could not help wondering if the first Dai had truly understood what he was starting when he first carved the Second Covenant into his armour.

Lieutenant Commander Optrion transformed and presented himself to the guards, arms held out to the side, weapons systems disconnected. It was an impressive display of correct protocol, thankfully so as Xaaron was too busy changing form to make the gesture himself. His sub-structure groaned with the effort and he was sure a couple of minor spurs gave way as his torso rotated. It was so easy to dismiss his age in the comfortable confines of Iacon, where transforming was seldom necessary. Out in the real world, his body betrayed itself.

"We are here to escort Emirate Xaaron of Nova Cronum to his meeting in the temple," Optrion explained, careful not to move, "My orders are to ensure that he reaches his audience safely and to escort him away again on the conclusion of his business. I defer to the Order on security within the temple and would request only that I be allowed to accompany the Emirate so that I may do my duty and provide him with such assistance as I am able."

The guards examined him in silence. A long while passed before the hexe nodded and he and the mech drew aside. The gates shuddered and opened, segments untangling and retracting in turn.

Optrion nodded his thanks and turned to Xaaron. "Emirate?"

"Oh no, Commander, please. You appear to have everything marvellously in hand. I defer to your expertise in protocol." This evidently startled the big red mech and he stammered an apology that Xaaron was forced to cut short with a raised hand. "I am quite sincere, Commander. I am grateful to have been assigned someone so conscientious."

"Then, forgive me Emirate, but it would be far more appropriate for you to lead the way."

Xaaron smiled. "Of course. After me, then."

Ancient architecture always gave the impression of being designed to over-awe everyone and anyone who beheld it, whatever their station in life. There was a grandeur to it lacking in modern buildings built for more practical purposes in a less energy-rich age. The temple was a perfect example of the style: a series of golden arches, deceptively large and strong, woven together to form chambers and hallways. In some places, the arches had been guided into spirals, creating towers – the better to watch over the Well.

Inside, all was light and silence. Elaborate patterns of mirrors and prisms guided shafts of sunlight into vaulted passages, filling them with webs of colour that illuminated ranks of bejewelled statues. History's saints stared down at them as they passed, benign and untroubled by the eons that had left them behind. These were the figures that the newly proto-formed looked up to in their first cycles of life – the Celestial Dai, the Highest Circuit Masters, the Primes – the ideals to which all of Cybertron was to aspire. They were hallowed. Inspirational. Their names resonated with everyone, high and low, in every society, in every city.

That was the theory, anyway. The idea of ideals that every protoform was given on the day of their birth.

Time to find out how much power those ideals really had.

An initiate met them at the gate, swathed in a flexible covering to protect its still-hardening electrum coating. Without a word, it guided them through halls and cloisters and into a large semi-circular room dominated by a towering frieze covering the straight wall. The initiate abandoned them before it, gliding away, still unspeaking. They both relaxed into the stance of people who have endless patience for standing around doing nothing. Xaaron found it amusing that the posture had not changed in the many, many mega-cycles since he had been a solider, and he suspected his amusement must have shown because Optrion began an intense study of the figures engraved on the wall.

Xaaron stepped back to get a better look. "Impressive, isn't it?"

Optrion jerked, ever so slightly. "Yes, Emirate." He seemed about to say something more but stopped himself, either out of deference or embarrassment. It was hard to tell.

"You know what it represents, yes?" Xaaron kept his voice neutral, trying to avoid sounding patronising.

The soldier hesitated, probably unsure what he was supposed to say. Then he nodded. "The aspects of Primus." He raised a hand, pointing to the images in turn and tracing the lines between them. "Mech, hexe, feme, quad, trac, cyol, avir, plex, joined in the light of the Matrix Flame. The many-formed, the half-sparked, the dwellers-in-the-deep. The Celestial Temple, the Sonic Canyons, the Manganese Mountains. Towers and chasms and the spans between. The moons. And the whole. Cybertron as Primus. That's the point," he added after a moment's thought, "That's why the figures are intertwined. Parts of the whole, a whole built from parts. Primus in totality."

"Very well put." Xaaron smiled, optics still scanning the frieze. "You clearly know your theological symbolism."

"I was a hauler for the archives in Iacon," Optrion told him by way of explanation, "I helped move several totality maps for restoration."

"Ah. Which also explains your familiarity with the ways of the Order. It must have been interesting work."

"It was. I...I actually considered becoming an archivist myself for a while."

Xaaron clasped his hands behind his back. "I assume the feeling did not last."

"No. It seemed too much like shutting myself away from the world. That did not..." The big red mech trailed off discontentedly. Not entirely surprising. Discussing his past life plans with a member of the High Council was surely not what he had expected when he was assigned as escort.

Time to move the conversation elsewhere. "There's another layer to it, of course." Xaaron nodded towards the engraved figures. "The faces. It's an ancient pictographic language. They spell out the Covenants." He raised a hand, indicating them in turn. "Defend life in others and in yourself. Care for that from which you arose and to which you shall return. Transform yourself beyond that which you are. Hm. Transform and transcend. Of the three, I've always thought that was most open to interpretation."

If Optrion had an opinion on the matter, he did not get the chance to share it.

* * *

><p>The chamber door opened and the High Circuit Master swept in, much to Optrion's relief. He had not been prepared for holding a conversation with the Emirate, much less getting into a theological discussion with him. As unassuming as Xaaron was, it still felt wrong to be making small talk with someone in such an elevated office. Optrion was much happier to stand at attention and focus on fading professionally into the background. As much as he could fade into the background in such grand surroundings. He felt dwarfed by it all, yet certain that everyone was staring at him, the ungainly red intrusion into a world of golden elegance.<p>

The High Circuit Master could not have been more fitted to the temple if it had been one of the ancient statues come to life. A tall, spindly figure moving with slow, stately grace, it hummed with the clicking and shifting of all the functions normally hidden by panels and armour. An electrum skin polished to mirror brightness reflected the world around it, so much so it seemed to be wearing the glory of the past in place of any normal covering. Calm, steady white optics blazed from a domed head stripped of all adornment and expression – the kind of face Optrion remembered from his first moments of consciousness, speaking reassuring words as he struggled to make sense of suddenly being alive.

He looked down, not wanting to stare. The High Circuit Master continued towards them, staff of office tapping rhythmically on the floor. Xaaron bowed, lowering himself to one knee. "Master, I greet you in the name of the people of Nova Cronum, by whose will I am honoured to serve, and in my own name, for I return to you as a scion of Tava Szenda, from which the Flame lifted me and into which, Primus willing, the Allspark will take me again."

It was a pitch perfect ritual greeting. Optrion could not help but be impressed by the smoothness with which the Emirate switched from idle conversation to formal protocol. The golden mech had not missed a beat.

"Xa Mech Aron Tava Szenda," the High Circuit Master intoned, planting its staff and making a 'get up' motion with its free hand, "I gladly welcome you to the Well from which you rose and to which you will one day return. Come freely in the name of life and the Flame and speak with me of what you will. I serve you as I serve all."

Xaaron got to his feet, offering another, less extravagant bow. "Master Velan. Thank you for agreeing to see me at such short notice. Normally I would not dream of being so abrupt but circumstances dictate an unusual degree of haste."

Velan passed its hand between them. "We are not completely insulated from the world here, Emirate. I believe your agitation to be well-founded."

"Would that it were not." Xaaron grimaced. "I need your help, Master."

"Then let us talk." It turned its white gaze to Optrion. "And this one...?"

"Op Mech Trion Novus Zar, Master," Optrion introduced himself, uncertain whether he was expected to bow as well. He had never encountered a High Circuit Master during his time with the archives, dealing only with the novices and initiates who ran the temples from day to day.

"The Lieutenant Commander can listen or not as he wishes," Xaaron said with gentle indifference.

"Very well," Velan acknowledged with another glance at Optrion, "Make your proposal, Emirate, and we shall see if it pleases Primus that I agree."

Xaaron paced once before speaking, turning back to the frieze for a moment. "We are on the brink of a war," he began bluntly, "Tarn and Vos are actively and aggressively threatening one another's sovereign authority and it is my belief – and the belief of the High Council at large, whether it admits it or not – that it is only a matter of time before they escalate to open conflict. Neighbouring states are being swept up in the hostilities, often without much choice. Those two cities control vast economic and military resources: they can force support for their causes and are doing so. If the tension is not defused, this entire region will be drawn in and set alight."

It was an extremely bleak assessment and it matched perfectly with the tactical and strategic analyses Optrion had been working on since being assigned to the Qosho Region. Master Velan did not appear all that shocked by it either. "We have watched the anger grow with great sadness," it said sonorously.

"And I am sure that I do not need to tell you that the loss of life in a full scale war between two of the most powerful city-states on the planet would be horrendous. Even if the fighting were restricted to Vos and Tarn's armies – and it would not be – many hundreds would perish. The collateral damage and the suffering that would result..." Xaaron let that hang there, not needing to finish.

Velan contemplated his words, then asked, "You think you know how to stop this?"

"I hope I do, Master, sincerely. I fear it will bring only a respite from the conflict but at this stage, any time gained is valuable." Pressing his fingertips together, Xaaron moved a step closer to the Circuit Master. "If the two sides could be brought together, publicly and on neutral ground, I think that they might be persuaded into some sort of truce, however temporary. Much of their power rests on how they are perceived by other states –and they know it. They want to be seen a certain way, to prove that they are better than their enemies and to hold the moral authority. On those terms, I think it might be possible to reach them. If a person of sufficient cultural, social and moral strength were to call upon them to attend talks in Iacon to settle the peace...then they would likely agree if only to preserve their image."

"And you would ask me to be this...person of strength?" Velan sounded worried by the notion and the clicking of its fuel regulators grew agitated.

"I would. You are a High Circuit Master, one of the oldest and most respected. More to the point, your temple and the Well that you care for sit right in the middle of the battle lines. A plea from you on behalf of the lives this war would endanger, living now and yet to come, would carry enormous weight."

Velan's fingers drummed on its staff. It stared at Xaaron with half-dimmed optics, body quieting. "You ask much of me, Emirate. For surely it is the Prime's voice that must speak, the Prime who must stand forward in life's name to halt this horror born of pride and anger." Its voice remained mild and was all the more dangerous for it. "Would you ask me to act in the Prime's stead, Xa Mech Aron?"

Xaaron smiled. "If I had not come prepared for that accusation, Master, I should not have come at all." He spread his hands. "The Prime has taken a position of neutrality. He has called for moderation but he will not risk legitimising either the Vosian or Tarnian stance. And he may well be right to do so."

That was the first time that Xaaron said something Optrion was not convinced the Emirate himself believed. It did not sound like an out-right lie, but there was the slightest hint of sarcasm buried deep in the modulation of his voice, not unlike the almost-concealed contempt Megatron displayed when he talked about Commander Vieuxuun. Maybe it was just the turn of the conversation reminding him of the manoeuvring of his superiors, yet Optrion did not think he was mistaken.

If Velan picked up on it as well, it made no comment and Xaaron went on, "The Prime is bound up in the Council's politics. You are not, Master, and you are also hold the respect of all peoples in this region, no matter their alignment. You are not seen as an outsider – and regrettably, the Prime _is_. I hesitate to presume so much on your behalf, Master, but it is quite possible your voice would carry _more_ weight in this matter than Sentinel's."

"You do presume a great deal, Xa Mech Aron." The Emirate actually flinched at the High Circuit Master's tone, and Optrion came very close to doing the same. Velan's staff scraped across the floor as it turned half away, optics flickering. It paced stiffly to and fro, fingers drumming once more.

"And you, Op Mech Trion?" it asked abruptly, looking back, "What would you have me do?"

Jolted by the question, Optrion stood dumbly for half a cycle, utterly at a loss for words. He could feel Xaaron's optics boring into him just as much as Velan's, willing him to answer correctly. He managed to open his mouth and forced his processors to function. "I..." He wanted to say it was not his place, that this was a matter far beyond a simple soldier. But the sheer intensity of the Circuit-Master's gaze permitted no such evasion. "If something could prevent the war, Master, then it should be done. And if words from you could bring Vos and Tarn to the conference table..."

"Then I should speak." It was physically impossible for it to do so, by Optrion was sure that Velan smiled wryly. "How straightforward it sounds. Never mind that I should be allowing trust of a sacred office to be used for political manipulation. Never mind that I should be presuming a position above the Prime. Never mind that what authority I have should be claimed by Nova Cronum and its allies. The end is just and so the act is." The Circuit-Master lifted its staff and rotated it, absorbed in the way the light bounced off the carvings along its length. "We stand guard over the future. We owe no allegiance, we respect no authority higher than the will of Primus. Our lives are given not to the world but to life yet to come. We abandon everything beyond the rim of the Well in order that we can guide each new generation up into the sunlight without favour and without prejudice. The end is just and so the act is. And I hear your argument already, Emirate Xaaron, that the war would threaten this Well and those nearby and all those lives who have sprung from them. It has been an age since the Wells were themselves threatened and an age beyond that since the Order of the Dai could not protect them from harm. I would dearly like to hope that it will be an eternity before that changes. That this conflict will blow over like a passing storm, doing no more harm and leaving no more scars."

It slumped, letting the staff strike against the floor. "But hope is a poor shield against falling bombs and the horrors of science turned against the First Covenant. This may fail, Emirate. They may not listen to me any more than they have listened to you."

"Yet we must try," Xaaron said softly, meeting its eye.

"Yet we must try," Velan repeated, looking at the floor. "Very well, Emirate of Nova Cronum. I will speak. I will call for peace talks. I will pledge my support to those in the Council who work for an end to these pointless hostilities."

"Thank you, Master."

"Thank me when this works. For now, speak to me of specifics. What exactly would you have me do next?"


	31. Channel Hopping

**3.6: Channel Hopping**

**02.065.1012 Summary Run**

**Global Newsfeed**

**Cybertron**

"_Violence in Vos – rioting labourers lay siege to the city's Civic Guard base! Anti-Council protests become open confrontation as anger at alleged cover-ups leads to attacks on officers! Conflicts escalate and angry workers drive guardsmechs back behind barricades!_

"_A daring rescue mission – Commander Megatron leads an unarmed Defence Directorate team into Vosian airspace! The Hero of Kolidahl shields Civic Guard personnel as they are evacuated aboard Air Guardians! Even as the crowds grow increasingly hostile, these mechs focus on the task of getting their civilian comrades to safety!_

"_A direct hit on Commander Megatron! Drenched in flaming oil, he stands firm and lets out a terrifying war cry, momentarily startling the rioters into silence! Surely, they must be ashamed to lash out at a mech who has done so much in their defence!"_

* * *

><p><strong>The Grand Slam Report<strong>

**Global Newsfeed**

**Cybertron**

"_...after which Vosian military flyers escorted the Air Guardians to the border, where they rejoined the Defence Directorate task-force currently undertaking peace-keeping duties in the region. Questions remain however as to why Vosian internal security did not come to the assistance of the Civic Guard during the disturbance, and why they allowed the incident to get so out of hand. I am joined by Lord Sarristec, representing the Vosian Conclave._

"_Lord Sarristec, many are seeing the lack of support for the Civic Guard and the general apathy shown by internal security forces towards what amounted to a full scale riot as further indications that the Vosian government is now taking an anti-High Council stance as part of its official policies. How do you react to those who say that this is a first step towards Vos splitting completely from the Council and the Inter-State Accords?"_

"Well, first of all let me say, as I always seem to when I'm on your feed, Grand Slam, that Vos remains committed to a peaceful, unified Cybertron. We would never adopt a position that threatened the stability and prosperity our planet has enjoyed for stellar-cycles. This incident was extremely regrettable and I can assure you that investigations are ongoing at the highest level.

"At the same time, we cannot ignore the growing discontent with the way that recent events have been handled by many Council-backed organisations. Given how high frustrations are running – as recent troubles in the Tagen Heights have highlighted – it may well be time for some serious questions to be asked about the relationship between those tasked with keeping order at an inter-state level and those they are supposed to be protecting..."

* * *

><p><strong>Planetary News Feed<strong>

**Qosho Region Local**

**Cybertron**

"_High Circuit-Master Velan's broadcast comes amid increasing military activity along the Vos-Tarn border. Blockades of trade routes across the region remain in place, with Vosian soldiers occupying the Drem-Vitzix Interchange and Tarnian forces continuing to turn merchant convoys away from Simfur. Despite repeated protests by leading businessmechs, neither city has lifted its restrictions. Trains entering the region are being diverted into holding loops and land traffic is being intercepted and turned back along most major routes._

"_As yet, neither Vos nor Tarn has officially responded to Master Velan's call for peace talks, but unofficial sources close to the Vosian Conclave have indicated that they will support a conference provided that Tarn shows willingness to abide by any agreements reached. It is expected that any such conference would be held in Iacon and the factions within the Council that have been attempting to mediate between Vos and Tarn – led by Nova Cronum and Iacon itself – have welcomed the High Circuit-Master's support._

"_Several commentators have expressed surprise that a traditionally apolitical religious figure has come forward to join the debate. While Circuit-Masters have in the past advised governments on matters concerning the Birthing Wells or wider spiritual issues, this is the first time in recent memory that one has taken a stance on a purely political issue. It is surely an indication of how serious the situation has become that Master Velan has done so now."_

* * *

><p><strong>Special Report<strong>

**Tagen Local News Feed**

**Cybertron**

" –_started just as the morning work shift was beginning, when a group of Tarnian merchant mechs seized a Vosian freighter. The Tarnians claim that the crew were attempting to transport controlled technology to augment Vos' military forces. They have taken over the freighter's command module and appear to be attempting to destroy the cargo. The Vosian crew is resisting them and the fighting has spilled over on to the dockside, where pent-up frustrations among the work-crews have ignited._

"_This reporter understands that the violence is not limited to Vosian and Tarnian nationals and that Tagan labourers have been seen taking sides. The Civic Guard has now cordoned off the immediate area and they are moving in to contain the situation._

"_I'm going to move in closer and see if I get a comment from the officer commanding the operation."_

" – take patrol squads two and three around to the west side and try to cut the Vosians off before they reach the volatile store on platform five. Clutch, I need you with the fire suppression teams. Make sure they get the best vantage points. Glitter, are those mobile repair bays active yet?"

"Damnit Diatrion – I'm a pathologist, not a field medic! Why couldn't you have grabbed someone else to pitch out into the middle of a riot? And yes, yes they are!"

"Good. The North Sector med-techs have the other side covered. Just patch up anyone who needs evac –"

"_Investigator Diatrion – Squawktalk, Tagan Local Feed. Can you tell everyone at home how you're planning on regaining control of the situation."_

"What the – sir, this is a hazardous area at the moment. Please fly back behind the cordon."

"_Will you be attempting to storm the occupied ship? The docking clamps have been locked solid: do you believe there is a risk that the Tarnians will attempt to move the freighter out of the docks?"_

"Sir, please – Dinuxx, watch out for the lifter on platform seven! Sir, I am trying to coordinate with my colleagues. Please get back to a safe distance."

"_Is there a risk of this conflict spreading? Is it likely that conflict between work-crews and their employers will be reignited by this incident? Is the Civic Guard prepared for an escalation in incidents of this kind as tensions between Vos and Tarn increase –"_

"Sir, if you do not remove yourself immediately, I will be forced to ask one of my constables to –"

KATHOOM

"_Ack! Viewers, a massive explosion just ripped through the freighter's cargo pods, showering the immediate area in shrapnel and flame! There are fires all across the dock now, some of them right in the middle of the rioters and –"_

"Get him out of here, right now! Fire suppression teams one and four, move in – patrol squad six, cover them –"

_[Connection terminated]_

* * *

><p><strong>Priority Message to the Directors<strong>

**Silver Ridge Technological Foundation**

**Polyhex**

**Cybertron**

_It is my unpleasant duty to report that we can no longer afford to continue operations at our Tagan complex. Unrest among the labour grades coupled with increasing restrictions on goods traffic in the area mean that it is no longer viable to maintain the facility or its staff. All essential materials and staff will be transferred to the Yuss facility pending reassignment. All non-essential staff will be laid off and non-essential materials will be sold for as good a price as can be attained in the current climate. In the interests of public relations, one-time redundancy payments will be offered to all workers in lieu of benefits and energy allowance._

_It should be noted that the Tarnian government has extended an offer to purchase a number of research projects and prototypes that were previously being developed at the Tagan complex. At this time, I would not recommend accepting this offer. It remains extremely unclear who will gain the upper hand once the current political manoeuvring is complete. Moreover, previous dealings with Tarn have proved unprofitable and to be a significant public perception risk. Tarn's well-known technological advances have largely been focused in the military sector and this Foundation has always sought to distance itself from that area._

_I will transfer to the Yuss facility immediately to oversee the fitting out of laboratory space. My deputy will handle arrangements at the Tagan end. We will continue to keep the board appraised of our progress._

_I remain your servant:_

_Casst Avir Ina_

_Executive Operations Coordinator_

_Qosho Region_

* * *

><p><strong>Encrypted message<strong>

**Low-level communication channel**

**Simfur**

**Cybertron**

_Heavytread,_

_We're not going to last here, brother. The Tarnians have stepped up their patrols again. The so-called government just lays down and lets them roll out whatever damn thing they want. The curfew's just an excuse to given Viilon's thugs something to shoot at. We lost Swingwing last night. Don't know if they took him but either way he's dead._

_If you think you have a shot at getting the Vosians to help us, take it now. Everyone's saying that it was them who blew up the security post in the gardens of Light, and Mystionn swore he helped some foreigner cross the border. If they can get stuff to us, weapons, fuel –_

_Could be our last chance. We all hate it, but we need someone to help or this is all going to have been for nothing._

_We're counting on you._

_Moonshine_

* * *

><p><strong>Internal Communication: Elita to all senior Temple Guards<strong>

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

_You all know what's happening in three days' time._

_Functionally, the peace conference will just be a meeting of the High Council with a few extra chairs. We are not expecting any trouble inside the Temple itself, although the Bodyguard will be conducting regular sweeps for unauthorised objects, spies, assassins and journalists. Your job will, as always, be to stand around looking impressive and to keep everyone moving in the right direction. If Vos and Tarn start a war in the Council Chamber, your first priority is to defend the Prime. Protect the Emirates and other delegates to the best of your ability but Sentinel's safety comes before everything else._

_The media, gawkers and protesters are going to be out in force, so we will create a two hix exclusion zone around the Triumphant Steps. The Civic Guard will handle everything outside that. You have responsibility for all visible security within the Temple boundary. The Bodyguard will be maintaining the scanner stations on all the entrances and the Red Watch will be on crowd control duty. Everyone who is not absolutely necessary to proceedings will be barred from the Temple precincts and will need to be cleared out tomorrow. They have all been notified, which is why my console is now full of messages from angry clerks._

_One complication is that Circuit-Master Velan is going to be attending as well and the Matrix Keepers have insisted on handling his visit themselves. That should not be too much of a problem but it will mean a couple of extra golden-bods cluttering up the halls. Orinixx, you are in charge of looking after them. Maybe if you have your hands full with religious types, you won't get caught making faces at Emirate Tomandii again._

_Individual orders are enclosed. Brief your teams. I want everyone at their professional best for this. Anyone makes Temple Security look stupid when the world's watching and I will personally feed them piece by piece to the Great Devourer._

_Good luck to us all._

* * *

><p><strong>Needlenose's Need to Know<strong>

**Gold Fashion Feed**

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

"_Yes yes yes! He's done it again! Up-and-comer Gauun – who first broke out on this very feed – has secured one of this season's top contracts as the _personal_ designer for the Red Ridge Race Team! We have an exclusive first look at what he's bringing to the game and WOW!_

"_It's sleek! It's stylish! It flows with every line of those hot rods' bodies! And just look at the way it _moves_! Stay on this feed for the full showroom download!_

"_FASHION ALERT! Spots are back back back! Get down to the nearest body-shop and get them on!"_

* * *

><p><strong>Encrypted feed<strong>

**Protihex**

**Cybertron**

"_The blockades are becoming a problem. A little restriction is good for business but this...they're cutting too many routes off."_

"You want to pull out?"

"_Much more of this and it won't be a choice. Our buyers in Vos aren't making it worth our while to run Tarnian checkpoints. They've got squads down in the low sub-levels now for Pit's sake. The Vosians are smuggling most of their contraband themselves anyway."_

"Do we really want it said that the Black Shadow doesn't honour its promises?"

"_Do we really want our best couriers shot or locked up?"_

"...you make a good point. Fine. Suspend Vosian transfers for the moment. But I want you to monitor the other players, especially those who do well in this crisis. We are not happy that business is going elsewhere.

_Of course not. I've got my optics on a few concerns who seem to be doing better than they should be. Looks like the Tarnians are using some of them to infiltrate Vos."_

"Typical politics. Always messy."

"_You got any idea what'll happen if this all goes up?"_

"You're the one on the ground. You tell me."

"_Hard to tell from down here. It's getting damn tense though. Everyone's on edge, even my top mechs. Had a feme nearly rip Trilock's tail off last night because he was shooting off about how Tarn'll wipe Vos out."_

"You able to keep order?"

"_Of course I am. Doesn't mean that I like having to cut down my own._"

"Just ride it out. It'll pass."

"_It better. I don't want to be around here if the Big Two can't keep their missiles in their silos."_

* * *

><p><strong>Secure channel<strong>

**Government Section 4:55**

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

_Unregistered Simfur mech identified from records as anarchist combatant "Heavytread" intercepted attempting to cross Vosian border._

_Negative response to order to halt._

_Combat ensued – subject terminated._

_Returning body to Tarn Central from memory retrieval/cross-reference: location of resistance bases._

* * *

><p><strong>Nova Cronum diplomatic channel<strong>

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

"_Tell me Xaaron: do you really think this conference will make a difference? You have put so much energy into it and yet I still cannot see Vos and Tarn settling their differences at one Council meeting."_

"Any time gained will make a difference. My sources tell me there's a possibility that at least one member of the Conclave is advocating a less aggressive stance. If we can give her time to strengthen that position..."

"_Heh. I do not suppose it can hurt that Lord Taynset will be in Iacon, either."_

"One would very much hope not. And even if it's foolishly optimistic to expect grudges mega-cycles in the making to be resolved with a few carefully chosen words by an outsider, we can at least establish the grounds for a dialogue."

"_And stop them just shouting deafly at one another. Yes. That would be a step forward by anyone's reckoning. Will Traachon lead the mediation?"_

"As is the right of Iacon. He knows what is at stake. I trust him to serve the role well."

"_And what of the cost of failure? Xaaron, I have never been a soldier and I have little conception of what a war would mean. The facts and figures I ordered our intelligence service to release to you seem terrifying but what do they mean on the ground?"_

"That both cities have arsenals the likes of which have never been known before. Heavily modified and augmented soldiers. Enough troops to conceivably stage full-scale invasions of one another. And long-range weaponry that...concerns me greatly."

"_You think they would go so far as to launch missile attacks against each another?"_

"I know they would. The question is, under what circumstances would they do so? Even knowing the temperamentsof the two cities, I am not certain... Traachon shared information with me recently – you will have seen it in the encrypted dispatches – the Defence Directorate's analyses of Tarn and Vos' border defence grids. There is the suggestion that each city has erected rings of sensors linked directly to the main silos. If one steps on the other's territory..."

"_They would do that?"_

"Tryptatrion, Vos feared Tarn's rise so much they once broke the Accords in all but name by sending soldiers to help the most violent warlords in massacring their own people. Tarn has never forgotten or forgiven that and the hatred that comes from the memory united them behind Viilon when he promised to make them the strongest city on Cybertron. I am honestly amazed that the slaughter has not already begun and I'm sure that it is just the desire to be seen as the defender rather than the aggressor that is holding them back.

"Thank you for trusting me enough to give me the freedom I needed to try and stop this insanity."

"_My friend, if I did not trust you to do the right thing in the name of Nova Cronum, I would not have ratified your election to Emirate in the first place."_

"I...know there has always been some objection to my appointment though. I came to your city late in life and, in truth, I think there are many who expect me to turn my back on you and join with Viilon at any moment."

"_I am not one of them. I know you better than that. As for the rest – those who join the Defence Directorate swear to leave allegiance to city and state behind. You left the military calling nowhere on Cybertron home and I am proud that you chose to come here."_

"Thank you...I...am proud to have been accepted."

"_You earned it. And I will be glad to have you standing beside me in the Council Chamber."_

"I'm glad that you and I will not be the only ones standing there."

"_Iacon, Nova Cronum, Altihex, Uraya, Hexima, Tygr Pax and Ankmor. Quite the coalition."_

"Master Velan's words reached many. Our careful outlines of the consequences of a war reinforced the message."

"_Luckily, those words reached Vos and Tarn as well."_

"As I said, they each want vindication. Our job will be to persuade them that they can have it by being the first to agree a peace, not to start a war."

"_Let us hope we are up to the task."_

"We have to be."

* * *

><p><strong>Personal Log – Field Commander Vieuxuun<strong>

**Defence Directorate Command Channel**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

_I continue to be concerned by Commander Megatron's reckless attitude to combat situations. His undoubted heroism in leading the rescue mission to the Vos Civic Guard base could easily have resulted in another Simfur-style incident whereby the presence of a well-known Tarnian-born soldier incited the rioters to even greater acts of violence, thus endangering all involved. It is extremely lucky that his theatrical outburst did not have such an effect all on its own._

_Megatron's single-minded approach to problems may be fitted to the kill-or-be-killed environments on the uncivilised frontier of Cybertronian-controlled space but it is hardly suited to delicate domestic operations requiring significant political awareness._

_Morale remains variable. I am aware that some troopers, particularly those in Commander Megatron's battalions, are expressing frustration at having to exercise restraint and not interfere with on-going Vos/Tarn military activity. I am glad to say that such complaints within the ranks I myself command are minimal. My soldiers appreciate that while such action is confined within the cities' respective borders, our place is here, monitoring events, not intervening._

_Fortunately, the grumbling has not resulted in any more inappropriate 'strategy sessions'._

_On a separate note, I am pleased with Lieutenant Commander Optrion's handling of the recent visit to Tava Svenda by the Emirate of Nova Cronum. It is pleasing to see that time spent on the frontier has not diminished the reverence for tradition and protocol that he, as an Iaconian, must inevitably possess. I may make overtures to him with regards to transferring him to my command. His record is moderately impressive, but shows signs that he has learnt perhaps too much from his present superior. It would benefit him to spend so time in a more disciplined environment._

_Vos and Tarn troops continue manoeuvring along the border. They remain on high alert but have not taken any overt action against one another. I am still of the opinion that these displays of hostilities will not escalate. It is simply not in anyone's interest to allow it to do so._

* * *

><p><strong>Local News Feed<strong>

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

"_As preparations continue for the Tarn/Vos peace conference, residents in the Upper Temple and the South Orbital districts are being asked to submit to security checks ahead of the delegates' arrival tomorrow. The Civic Guard has requested citizens' cooperation as there are concerns that extremist groups may attempt to disrupt proceedings. Protests are expected throughout the conference, with radical group 'Fuel For All' threatening direct action against members of the Tarnian government in retaliation for reductions in fuel exports. From this evening, traffic through the city gates will be suspended, and additional restrictions on aerial movement within the city limits will remain in effect for the duration of the conference._

"_For more information on how the security measures will affect you, please tune to the official Civic Guard public information feed._

"_In other news, concerns have arisen about the stability of Iacon-based industrial giants Silver Ridge Technological Foundation and Inter-State Solutions following their decisions to pull out of the Qosho region. The closure of their major facilities in Tagen and Vos, respectively, is expected to leave hundreds out of work. While the Vosian Conclave has pledged to transfer skilled personnel into state-run industry, no such aid is expected from a Tagen administration facing increasing labour-grade dissatisfaction. A key transport hub, Tagen is nevertheless struggling to support a rapidly increasing population._

"_Silver Ridge's decision to close its research complex in Tagen's Under-Town district comes after consolidation of a number of other scientific units across the planet and a retraction of its bid for mineral rights in the newly claimed Si-prima star system. The Foundation, which is owned in part by the prestigious Avir Ina clan, had previously invested heavily in the failed Anska mining operation. Inter-State Solutions had been expanding rapidly in recent stellar-cycles thanks to the support of several Solaria Region cities but is now facing a downturn in customer –"_

* * *

><p><strong>Scrambled Channel<strong>

**Unidentified Location**

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

"_I know you can hear me Viilon. I know you can because you hear everything in this damned city and I know you listen to it all._

"_You have to see what you're doing. You have to see where this is going. You have to stop._

"_You're smart. As smart as me. Smarter, maybe – which, trust me, is hard to admit. You've got to see it too – the patterns. The consequences. Where this is all going._

"_Pull back. Stop and pull back._

"_Listen to me Viilon. I'm still here. I'm not going away. Your thugs can't find me. And I'm just going to keep sending this until you listen._

"_Come on Shockwave! Think. Use that logic of yours and look at it all. See where the patterns are leading. Do you want a war you can't win? Do you want everything you've built to fall down?_

"_I know you can hear me. Listen to me. Stop now, before it's too late. Before you can't stop it._

"_Stop before the patterns run out of control. Listen to me._

"_I'm not going to stop. I'm still here. I'll keep sending until you listen –"_

* * *

><p><strong>Priority Channel<strong>

**Air Traffic Control (North Arc)**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

"_Iacon Control, this is Syska Mech Liomm on flight 29-27, carrying Lords Taynset, Sarristec and Omnitron of the Vosian Conclave. I am inbound on final approach requesting landing beacon."_

"Understood, Syskaliomm, landing beacon now being beamed to you. Your escorts are to pull back to course 10-00-07. Air Guardians will fall in with you for the final hundred hix and Red Watch flyers are standing by to guide you through the outer defences. Welcome to Iacon."


	32. Last Chances

**3.7 Last Chances**

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

Many years ago, when Sarristec had been just another scientist-in-training at the Vosian Academy, he had visited Iacon as part of an exchange programme. Then, as now, he had been struck by how _ancient_ the Golden City was.

Iaconians prided themselves on it. The foundation of Cybertronian civilisation. The first city-state. The fortress of the First Primes. Here was where the Matrix Flame had ignited. There stood the beacon forged by Helix Magnus to mark the end of the First Chaos War. In the shadow of those great walls, champions had fought and dynasties had risen and been overturned. Ideologies and theology that had come to be known across the planet had originated in this place, with scholars who spent their days looking up at the immense spire of the Celestial Temple. For the people of Iacon, their greatness lay in the great weight of monumental events for which their city had been the backdrop.

Yet the truth was that as those events receded into history, Iacon remained unchanging. It stood as it had always stood, a city of shrines and monuments steeped in ceremony and tradition, any advancement or innovation quietly hidden away in case it altered the way things were done. Cybertron moved on while Iacon rusted beneath its gilding and it was left to others to lead the way into the future.

Looking around the Council Chamber, it was clearer than ever that only Vos could carry that burden.

The ring of seats had been expanded to nearly twice its normal size to accommodate the delegates. Two additional sections had been created within the ring for Vos and Tarn and a short arc in front of Sentinel's throne had been separated out for the mediators – to give them the appearance of having the Prime's support, if not the reality of it. They sat there now, a gathering of mediocre states clinging to the vestiges of relevance. Small wonder that Iacon's Emirate was at their head.

The rest of the Council awaited the start of proceedings with noticeable nervousness. Emirates and other dignitaries arranged themselves to show their support for one side or, for a few, their neutrality. Irritatingly, the Vosian and Tarnian 'sides' were about equal, although those who were aligned with Tarn looked far more uncomfortable about it. Obviously they were beginning to realise the mistake they were making.

As the Vos delegation entered, the murmured conversation filling the hall died away. Sarristec schooled his face into a solemn, stern expression. It would not do to show open contempt just yet. He walked a few steps behind Lord Taynset, side by side with Emirate Graviitus. Omnitron trailed behind them, a spare part scarcely distinguished from the aides who followed. The old mech had always been one of Taynset's staunchest allies but he was severely lacking in charisma, not to mention appearance. A tank, even as sleek an example of the type as Omnitron no doubt was, was never going to be an impressive sight next to two of Vos' most elegant jets.

Taynset did not bow to the mediators so neither did the other members of the procession. He took his seat without ceremony, shifting his wings to a more comfortable position and folding his hands together. Sarristec sat next to him and did likewise. Muted discussions began again, a few of the mediators surreptitiously comparing documents and updating one another's files. A flunky scurried up to the Speaker of Nova Cronum and spoke in an urgent whisper. Whatever was said, it clearly disturbed the heavily ornamented mech and he turned to exchange urgent words with the dull-looking Emirate next to him. They looked across at the Vosians with dismay.

"_Just look at this rabble!"_ Graviitus beamed smugly, _"And they dare to try to censure us? You have nothing to fear speaking before these strutless fools, Sarristec."_

He bristled at the familiarity presumed by a blustering second-rate ex-politician, but Taynset said smoothly, _"My Lord Sarristec is eminently capable of representing Vos in any forum. He need never fear otherwise."_

Which was most pleasing to hear and Sarristec acknowledged it with a small smile. _"I am honoured to serve –"_

The voice of one of the guards boomed through the chamber. "Viilon, High Governor of Tarn!" All optics turned to the doors. Quite naturally, Sarristec expected to see a procession of Tarnian diplomats, if such a thing were believable. Barbarians playing at being civilised. A carnival of brutes affecting the trappings of refinement.

But no. A single figure stalked into the room, a single massive figure with a single vivid optic.

There was indeed something brutal about Viilon, but it was nothing to be mocked. Strength and power emanated from him. He seemed built entirely from thick slabs of indigo armour that would have been artless if they had not fit together with such precision. This was no mere back-street brawler or petty murderer, as politically useful as those images were. This was a superbly engineered warrior and it was totally believable that he had ended stellar-cycles of war virtually single-handedly.

Sarristec was not intimidated easily. He was a Lord of Vos, one of the Conclave, a mech of significance and influence, and more than accustomed to dealing with powerful people. This though, this was different. There was no aggression in Viilon's posture, no emotion of any kind save perhaps a quiet confidence. But his sheer, unrelenting _presence_ filled the chamber completely and it was all Sarristec could do to keep his own emotions in check. A quite un-Lord-like surge of fear made him wish he was somewhere, anywhere else.

Only when he looked across at Lord Taynset's calm, unconcerned face did the panic die down. He got a hold of himself and composed his expression similarly, adopting the air of one to whom physical power is an extravagance making up for a lack of wit and intelligence. Of course it was all a front. A 'logically calculated' show of might designed to impress the weak-willed into believing that Tarn possessed either merit or true strength. Fear as an argument, violence as a means of government. How simplistic. How contemptible. How very Tarnian.

Viilon did not take his seat but stood near it, staring ahead, not so much as acknowledging the presence of the Vosian delegation. Emirate Haacano followed a moment later, composed and dignified yet irrelevant next to his superior. They were really inordinately dissimilar. True, Haacano had some indigo plates in his armour but otherwise, he was a shiningly obsolete ornament next to a terrifying weapon of war. The contrast would have been amusing under other circumstances.

On an unspoken signal, the rest of the gathering rose to join the Tarnians on their feet, the Vosians doing so slowly and with dignity. The Prime entered solemnly, curiously unimpressive after Viilon's arrival. The spear seemed less a badge of office and more a means of support. Sentinel moved with an unnatural stiffness, his footsteps falling heavily and with no real strength. For all his undoubted stature, the world was leaving him behind, just as it had already left behind the decrepit figures who shuffled in behind him: Master Velan and a couple of lesser Circuit Masters followed by four sombre Matrix Keepers swathed in their all-concealing coverings, all of them carrying staves of office. Sarristec wondered why it was that religious leaders should feel the need for such ridiculous signifiers of authority. Were he ever to be so desperate to need to impress others with his importance, he prayed he would at least have the sense to do it with something less ostentatious. A crest or a crown. Not a massive great pole that served no practical purpose.

The gruesome procession split around the Prime's throne, taking up positions flanking him and settling down to watch over proceedings with the solemn dignity of eroding statues.

"This Council is in session," Sentinel announced, his voice echoing through the hall, "Praise the Allspark. Hail the Flame."

"Praise the Allspark," came the refrain, "Hail the Prime."

His duty done, he sat. And seemed almost to switch off, becoming still and somehow removed from events. An irrelevance, there only because he had always been there.

Emirate Traachon of Iacon rose. Here then was where it truly began. Ceremony and public opinion had been appeased. Time for more serious matters.

* * *

><p>Traachon spoke for several deca-cycles, laying out exactly where a war between Vos and Tarn would lead and offering the mediators' preferred solutions for consideration. He spoke well, with feeling, channelling all the frustration, desperation and fear the situation had caused, while still managing to stay calm and reasonable. Do not break the unity and peace that Cybertron has enjoyed for thousands of stellar-cycles, he implored. Do not turn on your brothers when there is another way.<p>

The moment Lord Taynset signalled Sarristec to take the floor in response, Xaaron knew it had all been for nothing.

It was the same swaggering figure he had seen so often in the propaganda broadcasts, the embodiment of forward-looking Vos. All smooth lines and oiled movements, wealth and power wrapped in cobalt and crimson, smaller in real life but no less charismatic. Contempt flowed off Sarristec's wings like rain. His speech was full of respectful words for the Council, the Circuit-Masters and the Prime but they rang hollow amidst a landslide of Vosian nationalism. Vos had never been the aggressor, came the old cry, it had always acted to protect its people, to build its future, to inspire a better Cybertron. If the Inter-State Accords needed to be bent out of shape to achieve Vos' goals, ran the subtext, that was their failing. Let all change to suit Vos because Vos' aspirations should be those of all peoples.

Familiar rhetoric, delivered with passion and without irony. Perhaps the elegant young jet really believed what he was saying. Perhaps he said it because he knew his power depended on others believing it. Whatever the case, he gave ground to neither opponents nor moderators. Vos was right and that was the end of it.

Xaaron had to turn his face aside to hide his frustration. Had he known, deep down, that the talks would be simply another round of argument? The same tired old lines delivered by fresh players? He had hoped beyond hope that the two sides would come inspired to find a rational, sane way out of the trap into which they were driving themselves. He had hoped they would be able to at least _see_ the trap and want to escape it, no matter what their pride told them.

But here was Lord Sarristec prating and posturing, pouring his spark into slogans and sound-bites, allowing no concessions and no room for debate. He was absurd, regaling the High Council with election rally propaganda. And he was terrifying because he was the face that Vos wished turned towards the whole world, here where the future of the planet lay in the balance.

Opposite, Viilon sat listening, head slightly tilted at exactly the right angle to indicate he was doing so attentively. When Dionnat had told him that the governor was the only member of the Tarnian delegation on his way to the Council Chamber, it had filled Xaaron with dread. Tarn as a single implacable monolith: the image that the Vosians held up at every turn as the reason everyone else should fear their old foe.

The last thing Xaaron wanted was for the rest of the Council to look on Tarn as the threat Vos told them it was and react accordingly. There were many things wrong with Tarn but bitter experience told him trying to level the city would solve none of them.

Sarristec's monologue extolling the righteousness of his city and the barbarity of its neighbour slowed to a conclusion that would have no doubt raised a cheer from the people who had elected him into power. The Council greeted it with strained silence and averted gazes. Many among those representing Vos' allies and trading partners looked uncomfortable now, far more so than they had at the start. Maybe they too were appalled at the unflinching stance their masters were taking.

"We respectfully attest," Sarristec finished with a graceful bow to those before him, "that Vos will have no part in any resolution that infringes on our right to self-determination and the improvement of our nation, within our boundaries and within the sparks of our citizens, that is the right and privilege of every Cybertronian ignited in the light of the Matrix."

He resumed his seat amid a flurry of activity. Every comm-channel in the room jammed with frantic chatter between the delegates, Emirates and city leaders babbling to one another while trying to maintain a façade of polite consideration of Vos' position.

Xaaron pressed his fingertips together, half-shuttered his optics, looked across at Viilon and braced himself for whatever was going to come next.

* * *

><p>Lord Taynset gave the slightest of nods and the smallest of smiles. Sarristec returned the nod and sat back with a feeling of immense satisfaction. The optics of the room were upon him still, the Council and all those city-states fixated on Vos' glory.<p>

It was good. It was a triumph. _He_ had been the one to stand before them and show that his people would not be bowed or pressured or cajoled into being something they were not. _He_ had carried the Vosian standard and planted it before the Prime himself. His ascendancy among the Conclave was assured with that single speech. No one would dare contest his right to stand beside Lord Taynset. And perhaps, one day, far into the future, when the Conclave required a new leader –

Viilon stood and the room grew still. For one uncontrolled instant, Sarristec was almost painfully envious of how easily the hulking purple cyol commanded the attention of everyone present. But of course that was down to fear, not respect or statecraft. Like all Tarnians, the only way for him to interact with the wider world was to try and intimidate it.

That unwavering optic lifted to stare directly at the Prime, as if he were the only important part of the proceedings and the mediators and the Council and the delegations were irrelevant. The old fool that Iacon had elected as their Emirate made a token attempt to regain control of the situation, getting up as well and offering a belated invitation to Viilon to make his address. He was fooling no one.

Viilon continued to stare at the Prime. "Under my leadership," he began flatly, "Tarn has always acted within the bounds of the treaties that ratified its foundation and within the accords that created the union between Cybertron's many states. Each city has the right to determine its own form of government and to be bound by the operations of that government without external interference. Each city is permitted to improve its infrastructure, to exercise its code of justice and to pursue its social, technological and economic advancement free of external interference. And each city has the right to call on the assistance of its neighbours for support where its own internal institutions are deemed to have failed it. Whatever contradictions these principals create, Tarn has adhered to them. Within those boundaries, it has become ordered and prosperous and has created stability for its neighbours. Tarn has been responsible for fifty-seven deep-space expeditions, forty-nine of which have culminated in the exploitation of resource-rich worlds for the good of Cybertron as a whole. It is now an energon hub that supplies the fuel needs, in whole or in part, for seventy-three separate states."

The yellow eye contracted, ever so slightly. "Tarn has no need to act aggressively. Tarn has no need to expand beyond the territories it has been allotted. What it has achieved with the resources it commands surpasses the achievements of any state that has attempted to annex, conquer or otherwise place another under its dominion. Many have claimed that the deployment of Tarnian troops in Simfur constitutes the beginning of such an expansion. It does not. Those troops were deployed at the request of legitimately elected members of Simfur society whose statuary right to represent their people was being overridden by a biased and corrupt government in contravention of Article Fifteen of the Inter-State Accords. Tarnian troops remain in place at the request of the properly elected officials to oversee the hand-over of power and the creation of new social and judicial processes. As soon as this is complete, the troops will be withdrawn. This is not a plot to seize power over another state. This is the enactment of a duty that all states share under the agreements and treaties that grant them their authority."

Now, at last, Viilon's head swung round to look at the Vosian delegation. Directly, it seemed to Sarristec, at him. He quailed under the blank, impersonal stare. Rationally, he knew that he was in no danger, that there was zero actual possibility of the hulking purple monster striking him down then and there. It made no difference to the overwhelming urge to flee, to fly away as fast as he could and not look back.

"In response to the statements made by other city-states that have misinterpreted or chosen to ignore Tarn's intentions, it has been deemed necessary to implement defensive policies. Military operations have already been carried out to secure Tarn's borders against external threats and to prevent its closest allies from being targeted by extremist elements. Security levels have been raised throughout Tarnian territory and travel within Tarn will be restricted until further notice. In addition, I will now make clear certain facts about Tarn's front-line defences in order to deter any rash action on the part of those willing to escalate their irrational fear of Tarn into aggressive action. First – Tarn's borders and airspace are protected by a sensor grid of unparalleled sensitivity incorporating cutting-edge technology developed by myself and the upper cadre of the Tarnian scientific elite. This sensor grid can detect, triangulate and pinpoint for destruction any object that enters without prior authorisation. In addition, it can track back and identify the origin of any such object within zero-point-zero-seven-four hix. Second – should any attack succeed in breaching the outer defence perimeter, automatic systems will lock on to the point of origin of said attack and commence a proportional counterstrike up to and including the launching of photonic-warhead missiles capable of obliterating the infrastructure of any city on Cybertron's surface. Third – advanced weapons systems incorporated into Tarn's long-range weapon stockpiles include anti-countermeasure functions that have a ninety-eight percent chance of fully neutralising any attempt to defend against such a counterstrike."

The Council chamber rang with silence. No one spoke or moved or dared to take their optics off Viilon for a single instant. Sarristec was sure he felt several important pumps stalling deep within his superstructure. In a flat, emotionless monotone, his voice devoid of any overt anger or menace, the High Governor of Tarn had just threatened every city of Cybertron with utter annihilation if they lifted a finger against him. The shock of it was matched only by the utter horror of realising that he meant every word and, moreover, was coldly certain that he was fully capable of carrying that threat out.

In all his life, Sarristec could not remember ever once being threatened with death. Disgrace yes, poverty occasionally, pain perhaps, but never death. Never the end of his existence and the end of everything he knew. He had absolutely no idea how to respond. This wasn't a political exercise. There was no rhetoric in Viilon's words and he was not taking an extreme position for the sake of negotiating down to a reasonable settlement. This was absolute intent, with no attempt to evade or dissemble or covert the support of others.

It was utterly terrifying.

"Given these facts," Viilon added as a perfunctory conclusion to his grotesque mockery of a speech, "continued attempts to advance an aggressive policy with regard to Tarn would be highly illogical." And with that, he sat down, as perfectly composed as when he came in.

Emirate Traachon got up again, visibly shaking. But to Sarristec's astonishment, it was an enraged Lord Omnitron who spoke first, surging from his seat and radiating righteous fury. "How dare Tarn!" he rasped, tracks shifting and snarling, "How dare this unelected tyrant stand here and attempt to intimidate us into doing as he says! How dare he twist every letter of the law to try and justify his unrepentant interference in Simfur! Attack him, he says, and he will respond a thousand-fold! Well know this, _Governor Shockwave_ – Vos stands ready for you! We have our own sensor nets and our own defences and the first Tarnian soldier to set tread or wheel or foot on Vosian ground will unleash the full might of those defences against his masters! You threaten us but we _promise_ you that for every Pit-forsaken weapon you use to kill Vosians, a hundred more will fall upon you!"

Utter chaos erupted the instant Omnitron stopped speaking. Traachon called for order and a dozen other Emirates shouted him down. Violent outbursts were screamed from every corner of the room, declarations of opposition and support mingling in a thundering, unintelligible mass of noise. The Prime's spear struck the floor but was drowned by the pounding of delegates' feet and the flapping of their wings and the revving of their engines.

Sarristec wanted to throw his hands over his audio receptors and seal off his optics and only the vestiges of decorum kept him from doing so. He knew he should be joining in the fray, should be adding his voice to Omnitron's and venting Vos' anger until it echoed above the rest. Yet he was frozen, lost for words and caught in inaction, unable to move or speak. All he could do was watch the conference dissolve out of all semblance of civilisation until only two points of stillness remained untouched.

Viilon, whose gaze moved slowly from face to face, as if assessing the abstract results of some vaguely uninteresting experiment.

And Lord Taynset, who looked from Omnitron to Viilon and to the room at large and smiled the smallest of smiles.


	33. Falling Stars

_Author note: looks like I made a mistake and forgot to post this chapter before posting chapter 3.9. Sorry about that!_

* * *

><p><strong><span>3.8 Falling Stars<span>**

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Cybertron**

With a growing sense of dread, Optrion watched yet another Vosian troop transport set down and begin offloading a column of mechs and supplies. They were coming every few hecta-cycles now, streaking out from the centre of the city to drop sharply down behind one of the hundreds of forward positions that had been set up along the border. There seemed to be no end to Vos' army – and worse, no end to the Tarnian soldiers lining up to oppose them.

Which was more than could be said about the Defence Directorate forces expected to keep peace between them.

"_So, you want to go stand between them and shout 'stop' now or shall we wait for someone to actually start shooting?"_ Bentwing dead-panned. He was hovering maybe a hix up and seven to the north of Optrion's position, just far back enough from the border for neither side's sensors to be worrying about him.

"_At this point, would that do any good?"_

"_At this point, how can it make anything worse?"_

"_Good point,"_ Optrion agreed, _"I wish I could think of something that wouldn't."_

The peace conference had done nothing to stem the build-up. Both armies had continued to pour into battle-ready formations, almost absurd in how inexhaustible they seemed. Combined, Megatron and Vieuxuun's battalions numbered maybe seven hundred if you included the support crews as well as the combatants. Vos and Tarn had already committed well over a hundred times as many troops and showed no sign of stopping. At some point, logically, there had to be an end to it. Given how deep the pride and enmity of the two cities ran, Optrion fully expected them to have emptied their streets down to the substrata before either admitted to being the first to be unable to bring more soldiers to the front.

The Defence Directorate had pulled a dozen battalions off other duties ready for the inevitable worst but they remained on standby, unable to move in without the backing of a High Council that was to all appearances in the middle of tearing itself apart. Everyone from the pundits down had gone from wondering what would happen if a war began to wondering how long it would be until it did. According to Ironhide, only the crazy money was on anything longer than a quartex.

"_Maybe we should just start praying to Primus and be done with it,"_ Bentwing suggested, veering west, _"That's the traditional way of dealing with lost causes isn't it? Invoke Primus and wait for the ground to open up and give us a mighty sword of light or reformat us all into demi-Primes."_

"_It worked for Solus Prime,"_ Optrion replied, forcing himself to try for a joke.

"_Wasn't he the one who declared war on the colour blue?"_

"_That was Polemaarchos. Widely considered to be the counter-argument to the divinity of the Primes."_

"_Ah, right. Good to know. I'd hate to die in the cross-fire with an incomplete knowledge of theology."_

He barrel-rolled and flared his thrusters. _"I'll see you back at camp. Need to complete the circuit. Have fun crawling the ground, Commander."_

"_Good flying, Commander."_

Optrion watched the jet arc away and quickly become lost among the hundreds of other energy signatures filling the night sky. Rolling down the slope, dutifully logging the progress of the squads he had dispatched on patrol, his thoughts turned back to the sheer hopelessness of it all. As futile as it undoubtedly was, a good part of him really did want to drive straight between the two armies and yell at them to turn back. How could anyone be party to such insanity? How could they not see what they were doing, the chaos and destruction they were on the brink of unleashing?

Nationalistic pride. Anger at crimes committed by the long dead. Unreasoning hate that did not respond to reasoned argument, that did not even see that there was a reasoned argument to be had.

It was not about territory, it was barely even about defending their borders from outsiders. All those soldiers could see was the despised enemy at the other end of their guns, aiming back, a target to be destroyed because it represented everything they insisted they were not. Never mind the blameless who would suffer because of it. Never mind that the enemy thought exactly the same. Kill or be killed, attack or be attacked. Fight for your flag because it's not the other one. And in the end, it would all be for nothing. Or it would start all over again and in another hundred thousand stellar-cycles there would be another war and millions more would perish because of a line on a map.

Optrion gunned his engine that little bit harder and swerved violently out on to the road back to the encampment.

If only he could show them what he saw.

* * *

><p><strong>The Celestial Temple<strong>

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

"Can't we at least keep the noise down?"

Xaaron twitched with irritation at Traachon's plaintive cry. Beside them, the red and silver guardsfeme retained her steely composure but there was a new edge to her voice when she answered. "If you would like to go out and ask them to leave, Emirate, I will be happy to give you a full armed escort. Unfortunately, as it is, they are have the right to make as much noise as they want."

A right the crowd that had occupied the Triumphant Steps were exercising to its utmost, sending chants and cries up to echo through the Temple corridors with ever increasing fervour. When Xaaron glanced down through the windows that lined the Thunder Gallery, he could see a seething mass of protesters washing up and down like the tide, banners and placards and towering holo-projections pushing the very limits of what the security forces would let them get away with. There were the pro-Tarnians and the pro-Vosians, the pro-Council supporters and the neo-Anarchists, the Free-Fuelers and the Caste Fanatics, and a dozen more factions besides. Some of those present did not seem able to chose which manifesto to cheer for and were just locking on to whichever took their fancy at any one moment. Others were so passionate about their causes it was a wonder they were not exploding from sheer zealousness. Harassed members of Red Watch haunted the edges of the fray, making an effort to contain it but little else. Though they were hidden from his view by the architecture, Xaaron knew the Temple Guard were doing their famed impression of a wall in front of the entrance itself, no doubt hoping against hope that their impassive appearance would be enough to discourage those who longed to try something reckless.

It was loud and chaotic and utterly and completely irrelevant.

"Thank you for your time, Elita," he said firmly before Traachon could make any further complaints, "We must not detain you from your duties any longer."

The tall feme gave a stiff bow and marched away, a pair of equally massive guardsmechs falling in behind her.

Traachon had the decency to look embarrassed. "I'm sorry, but I am finding it so hard to concentrate with all _that_ going on." He waved vaguely at the windows.

"Funny. I find the imminent obliteration of two of Cybertron's most populous cities focusses my mind wonderfully."

"I know, I am sorry!" Traachon repeated, flinging up his arms. His face collapsed into gloom and despondency. "How could it have gone so wrong? They cannot possibly want a war!"

"They want to _not lose_ a war. Everything else is irrelevant. So we need to explore other options."

"What is there left to explore? Xaaron, we have tried everything –"

"No. Not yet. There are still the corporations. The trader guilds. The Defence Directorate. If we could get enough backing for an intervention or an arms limitation pact –"

"_Xaaron_!" Traachon put a hand on Xaaron's arm, forcing him to slow down. "Please. We may have to accept the inevitable." He cast blindly around for some scrap of good news. "Or perhaps now, when they see how close they are coming to disaster, the moderates will find their voice. Surely they must?" And this seemed to buoy his mood, a sliver of genuine hope filtering into his voice.

"Which moderates would those be?" Xaaron demanded harshly, shaking his friend off violently, "The Tarnian moderates who have no say in how their city is run? Or the Vosian moderates who have no say in who runs their city?"

The look of hurt that had replaced the hope was supplanted in turn by one of confusion. "What do you mean by that?"

"What do you mean, what do I –" He broke off and stared sharply at Traachon. "You haven't heard, have you?"

"Heard what?"

* * *

><p><strong>The Palace of Law<strong>

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

Sarristec stepped down from the shuttle with a feeling of immense relief. The flight back, cooped up, unable to properly stretch his wings, had been abominable. Ever since the conference had broken down, he had been straining under the need to remain collected and hold up Vos' flag. They had the moral high ground, he told himself. Among a fractured, confused council, only Vos saw the way clear and only Vos would be willing to stand up to Viilon's threats. That was what they had to show the world. That was what Sarristec had to believe. Because it had to be true. It was ludicrous to think otherwise and it would be fatal weakness to admit that it _could_ be otherwise and besides, it _was_ true. Any fool could see that. Vosian superiority was self-evident to all right-thinking mechs and only pride kept others from seeing it. Eventually, the other states would see past their own limitations and side against the threat of Tarn's barbarism. One way or another they would have no choice.

And then Sarristec remembered Viilon's calculated certainty, his cold warnings and brutal honesty.

Taynset stepped down beside him, folding his wings tidily behind his back and tilting his head slightly in quiet thought. Back in the Council Chamber, the blue mech had risen to cut through the hubbub with a few carefully chosen words. Omnitron's passion had got the better of him, he had said. Vos deplored the use of violence and acted only to defend itself. Threats could not be ignored but equally, war could never be welcomed. As long as the Council sought a peaceful solution, they would have Vos' support. It was deeply unfortunate however, Taynset had concluded, that Tarn did not share this spirit of cooperation and, with regret, until they did, Vos would be unable to enter into negotiations with them. He had swept from the room without looking back, quiet and masterful amidst the storm of protest. With that one act, he had proven Vos' restraint and unwillingness to compromise their principals, had shown that they would not give in to threats and that they were, ultimately, the only side any Cybertronian could support.

And then Sarristec remembered that little smile Taynset had given when Omnitron had begun the frenzy, so brief it might have been a trick of the light.

He needed time to think, away from the media and the pressures of office. Time to muster his thoughts into coherence and work out what he should do. The chance to power down and let his processors cool.

All luxuries he was unlikely to enjoy. Taynset had been nothing but complimentary about his performance before the Council and had impressed on him how important he was as the face of the Vosian cause. Omnitron would have to step back for a while, Taynset had confided. Too much passion there, with too little control. But Sarristec, well, Sarristec knew how to shape his message to his audience. Sarristec was who the media expected to see and in him, they saw all of Vos. Taynset would be relying on him more than ever before. In many ways, the elder Lord admitted, Sarristec would have to bear the burden of being the voice of the Conclave, a burden he knew the younger jet would carry with aplomb.

Sarristec forced himself to modestly accept the trust being placed in him, no matter how much the thought of it now made him want to scream. It was not as if he really had much choice.

The sight of the Conclave and its attendants assembled to greet them did not improve his mood one jot. The last thing he wanted was to face his peers when his mind was fizzing with uncertainty. There they were though, lined up to welcome the delegation home. Such was his preoccupation that he did not immediately notice that something was off. It only dawned on him slowly that the group was not arranged as it should be, that there were too many guards, that Taynset's diminutive grey attendant had taken an unusually prominent position –

The grey mech stepped forward to greet Taynset before any of the Lords and Sarristec realised that something was seriously wrong.

Taynset listened with concern to his flunky, then cast an optic towards one of the two groups into which the Conclave had been split. Vvnet was there, backed by Geneion, Telmuruus and half a dozen others. The bulk of the guards had them surrounded, energy-pikes angled inward.

"My friends," said Taynset gravely, "I do not quite believe what I am being told. It is a betrayal. There is no other word for it."

"It was a vote of no confidence," Vvnet growled back, arms folded. "A vote of no confidence in your leadership," she clarified, louder, unashamed.

"While I was not present to contest it. While I was distracted by issues of state. That is not a vote, my Lord Vvnet. That is a coup."

The feme's optics were slits. "You are taking us into a war we cannot possibly win! You may have dazzled your little collection of shooting stars and old fools into thinking this is going to be glorious but some of us can see things as they really are." Her voice rose, loud and clear, carrying right across the landing pad. "Lord Taynset is leading us into destruction! We will gain nothing from open conflict with Tarn and will lose our credibility with all those we consider allies! If any of you have any shred of true patriotism in you, you will help us stop this before it is too late!"

Everyone looked nervously at everyone else. No one dared move, much less speak. Sarristec was rooted to the spot, afraid to twitch lest it be interpreted the wrong way. He was uncomfortably aware of the grey mech's optics scanning lazily to and fro. There was something extremely unpleasant behind that bland stare.

Taynset hummed sadly and shook his head. "This is most regrettable," he said softly "Most regrettable. You are the last people I would have expected to abandon their principals for political greed. And to do so when we need your support the most. I am sorry. I truly am. I see no choice but to have you removed from the Conclave pending an investigation into this most unfortunate and misguided act. For the sake of the people, you must do this voluntarily and without objection. Perhaps when all this is over we can all re-evaluate our positions. Until then, I pray that you will reflect upon your loyalty to this great city and how far you have allowed yourselves to stray from it."

Politely yet forcefully, the guards began to move Vvnet's people back into the tower. She fixed Taynset with one last vicious glare before jerking her head aside and marching away, stiff, straight backed, wearing her contempt like a cloak.

* * *

><p><strong>Defence Directorate Command Platform<strong>

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Cybertron**

"_Whatever authority the Civic Guard had in the Qosho region, it has now evaporated."_ Deca Magnus said it with angry resignation. Even through a hologram, bitter powerlessness radiated from him. _"We just don't have the resources on the ground to help you. The most we could offer would be disaster relief afterwards."_

"_We have the troops to intervene but we have no pretext to send them in."_ Viktoleo flicked invisible dust dismissively from the yellow plates on his forearm. _"Unless anyone thinks Vos and Tarn will take kindly to training exercises right outside their territory?"_

"_There are Air Guardians and heavy transports lining up to volunteer for a rapid deployment mission,"_ Deftwing countered, _"The instant the word is given, they'll be in the air."_

"I hope they will be disappointed," Vieuxuun quipped, lightly adjusting the tactical display, "The build-up remains steady and there is no sign of any movement towards cross the border from either side. And with the Council still in session –"

"The Council remains in session because it is being torn in three different directions," Megatron snapped, frustration too great to be held in check any longer. His fingers ground against his palms. Day after day they went through the same charade, making empty plans and longing for support they did not have while the politicians busied themselves a mockery of their every last effort. "Is there no way we can bypass them?" he demanded, "There must be some grounds for bringing in a larger force."

Everyone turned to look at Supreme Commander Grandus, who shook his head ponderously. _"Our mandate is too explicit. Unless there is a clear and imminent danger to Cybertron as a whole, we must have a majority of the Council authorising a Defence Directorate operation."_

Megatron gestured violently, dashing parts of the tactical map to pixels. "And what is this if not an imminent danger to Cybertron?"

"Commander Megatron, please!" Scandalised, Vieuxuun held up his hands. "Consider what you are saying!"

"_I think we're all considering it, Field Commander,"_ Grandus rumbled darkly, _"Megatron makes a good point. I will be putting it forcibly to whichever Council members will answer my calls."_

"_I will be doing the same with a group of city leaders in three deca-cycles,"_ the Magnus put in, _"With luck I will be able to get their agreement to move Guardsmechs into a better position to assist you. Either that or they'll beg me to send them more white-and-blues in case Vos and/or Tarn tries to annex them."_

"_Then until we do this again tomorrow."_ Viktoleo touched his crest. _"Primus-In-Many-Forms smile on us all."_

The holograms winked out one by one and Megatron rested his fists on the projector table. He remembered once when he had been very young listening to a fan-winged avir preach the Primal Creed. Over the din of a packed market place, he had recited the Covenants to a knot of apathetic mechs and told them that their lives were sacred things that they were privileged to have, that they were all part of a whole greater than they could conceived, that Primus' spark existed in all of them and should be cherished. The avir had been convinced, it seemed, that everything was part of a single divine machine and whatever suffering was endured by the components of that machine, the end was worth it. Ultimately, Primus would bring all the children of Cyberton back to the Allspark.

Megatron wondered what the sanctimonious bird would have thought had he seen the map with its neat lines of killers waiting impatiently to be unleashed. Was this part of Primus' plan too? At the time, barely scratching an existence in Tarn's over-crowded factory districts, those beliefs had seemed the deranged optimism of the truly desperate. Now they were laughable.

If Primus truly cared for the children of Cyberton, there would be a wall of peacekeepers between Vos and Tarn sixty hix high.

Instead, the only thing there was a token gesture and a smouldering pile of deranged optimism.

* * *

><p><strong>The Palace of Law<strong>

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

"The Brixian Bulletin is asking for a quote, my Lord, and there has been a request for you to attend an emergency meeting of the Union Committee to be held tomorrow. You could make it, however it would mean delaying the tour of the Avenix Plaza Archive's deep defence chambers by a hecta-cycle. And I have finished compiling those statistics your requested. They have been uploaded to your personal database."

The bronze attendant, who had not stopped prattling on since the Conclave had dispersed, finally shut up. Such was his preoccupation that it took Sarristec a good two micro-cycles to absorb the silence and several more to respond appropriately. "Thank you . . . erm . . . Zacarii. Give them the generic line about confidence in the crisis. And decline the invitation. The Archive's more important than a collection of – than the Unions. Give my apologies. Tell them I am working to ensure their prosperity."

"Yes, my Lord."

"And from now on, I will not be making any public appearances that are not absolutely essential to the war effort. I don't have time to deal with petty engagements!"

"War effort, my Lord?"

Sarristec looked around sharply, cursing his ill-chosen words. Zacarii's uninspired features were pulled into a perplexed frown. Everyone might be expecting a war, might know full well just how close it was, but you sure as Pit did not go around saying so. "The effort to avoid a war. I meant – I said, the effort to avoid a war."

"Yes, my Lord." The attendant composed himself back into respectful unobtrusiveness. "Will you be requiring my services further this evening, my Lord?"

"What? No. No I won't. Thank you. You're dismissed."

"Very good, my Lord."

Zacarii glided away, displaying no evidence whatever of the burdens of office and state. Naturally. _He_ wasn't the one expected to bear them, was he? All he had to do was take messages and oil the cogs of government. A simple life for a simple mind. Typical of those who could not lead themselves.

Safe inside his office, the door sealed against the world, Sarristec collapsed into his chair like a heap of disconnected spares. Head lolling, he let out a slow grinding moan. There was so much to be done and yet he did not have the will to do it. The Conclave were relying on him to be the face they turned to the world. The much-reduced Conclave. The Conclave that hardly dared voice anything other than total support for Lord Taynset.

No! He could not afford to think like that. Taynset knew what he was doing. He had led Vos for hundreds of stellar-cycles and it was his hands that had dragged a city that had languished in decadence up into a position of power and influence, his hands that had shaped it into a shining beacon of the future, his hands that had brought them to the brink of –

"What statistics?"

Jerked clean out of his line of thought, Sarristec stared dumbly at his desk. The statistics he had asked for. That was what whatever-his-name-was had said. But Sarristec could not remember asking for any statistics. Certainly not recently, certainly not since he had returned from Iacon. He had been far too busy for research. Media appearances alone had consumed almost all of the time not spent in the Conclave chamber.

Some stupid mistake? Obviously the attendant had blundered. Except when Sarristec checked the order log, he found an entry requesting a download of statistics for the import of self-actuating stark bolts from Kalis over the past mega-cycle. Which was, to his certain knowledge, a topic in which no one had the slightest interest, least of all him.

And yet there the order was and there was the data, dutifully downloaded for his perusal.

Paranoia, fuelled by too much stress and too little rest, kicked in immediately. Was it a viral bomb, primed to frag his consciousness into random code? A spy program designed to lure him in and duplicate all his innermost secrets for public dispersal? A crank propaganda burst ready to incriminate him in some crazy plot to bring about religious reform? If he had been thinking straight, he would have immediately called security and gotten a viral disposal officer to come in and deal with it. Instead, he just sat there and fretted, rolling one disastrous scenario after another around his mind.

A state of affairs that was cut short when the data package unwound itself and snaked into the nearest holo-projector.

Sarristec stumbled from his chair as an image of Vvnet winked into existence before him. She looked as worn and tired as he felt, her optics dimmed and her fins flattened to her body. When she spoke, though, it was with a degree of command he could not recall her ever possessing before. _"Don't cry out."_

His vocaliser seized up half-way through forming a shocked exclamation. Quite without intending to, he clamped his mouth tight shut.

The hologram put its hands on its hips. _"You're probably surprised to see me. If there is something capable of thought in that pretty frame of yours, it's probably wondering how I've managed to get this message out of house arrest. Let's just say that Taynset is not as all seeing as he likes to imagine he is. Now. I don't have long and you don't have a very great attention span so let me make this quick: high and mighty _my Lord Taynset_ is going to destroy us all and, Primus help every one of us, you are the only one left who has a chance of stopping him."_

A faint squeak escaped Sarristec's mouth.

"_The truth is,"_ Vvnet went on, _"you are the most obnoxious, conceited, self-serving, self-deluding attention seeker it has ever been my misfortune to meet. Which means that if someone is about to cause you harm, you will turn on them like a cornered turbo-fox." _She shifted her stance, leaning back a little. _"So I want you to consider very carefully what is happening. Even to you, it must be obvious by now. He is using you, little shooting star, just like he's using everyone of us. Taynset is using you to further his own agenda and once he is done with you, you will be tossed aside."_ A brittle smile crossed her face. _"My use to him was at an end when he realised I couldn't be pushed into going along with his big plan. And you're probably thinking that's a reason to be a good little jet and do as you're told. But as I said, even to you it must be obvious that whatever Taynset hopes to get out of all this, he is going to drag us down to the Pit with him. You think we'll be safe from Tarn because of our missile grid? You think that'll stop Viilon flattening every spire to powder? Taynset is going to kill us all and he needs to be stopped."_

Vvnet's dismissive air was completely gone now. She was looking at him – though of course she wasn't really – with a kind of intense desperation, as if trying to make him do what she wanted through transmitted force of will. _"You can stop him,"_ she said quietly,_ "He's done his work too well with you. You're adored, a symbol of the nation, the pride of Vos itself. Speak out! Speak out now and condemn him, as publicly as possible. Use that stirring voice of yours, appeal to the sparks of the Vosian people, say whatever it takes but get people doubting! Get them to see the mech behind the mech for what he truly is! Bring all those shadow dealings out into the open! And if we're lucky, we might just avoid extinction. And you –"_ Then hologram jabbed a finger straight at him. _"You might just live to get another coat of enamel. Go on, shooting star. Time to save yourself!"_

The image snapped off as abruptly as it had appeared.

Sarristec sunk slowly to the floor and buried his head in his hands.


	34. Diplomacy by Another Means

**3.9 Diplomacy by Another Means**

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

"The motion that a contingent of Defence Directorate observers be sent in to oversee a bilateral scale down in the military build-up is…" Traachon paused, perhaps in desperate hope that the outcome of the vote would change if he strung the announcement out long enough. "…defeated."

This barely caused a stir among the rest of the Council. Graviitus became a little more smug, Haacano a little less tense. Both quickly returned to mutual animosity, metaphorically gathering their strength for the next argument.

Not that it would really be much of an argument. Whatever semblance of formal debate remained was squandered on the minutiae of proposals that were inevitably shot down by one or both of the factions. Those factions were, admittedly, dwindling in size. A number of states had visibly jettisoned their allegiance to Vos or Tarn in favour of more self-evidently stable allies. This did little to shift the balance of power in the Council, however, since by the same reasoning none of them wished to oppose their former partners.

Xaaron folded his hands together and shuttered his optics. Endless notes and reports filled his mind. At a glance, he could track the interplay of political alignments, the movement of the trading markets, the distribution of planetary defence forces, the latest sporting results from the Protihexian orbital tracks – anything and everything that might influence the next few days. And behind it all, behind all the background noise of a planet trying to go about its ordinary business, real-time updates from the Vos/Tarn border hovered like some vast avian predator – the only thing in the whole mass of information that really, truly mattered.

The future of Cybertron balanced on that thin strip of land. Thousands of hix away, safe inside Iacon's golden walls, the Council sat and bickered. On the front, peering anxiously out of his barricade or over the top of his gunnery platform, some young soldier was becoming impatient. Some commander was hoping that the enemy would make a move so she could prove her mettle. Someone, somewhere, was ready to snap.

Haacano was beginning another call for the Vosians to retreat. To Xaaron's eyes, he was looking increasingly desperate. Even if he supported the governor's policies, he clearly appreciated just how poorly Viilon's speech had been received. It was just unfortunate that his defensiveness translated to increasing displays of exasperation and hostility, to the point where, if he had stood up and accused Vos of stealing energy-boosters from protoforms, it would not have come as a great surprise.

Graviitus meanwhile was glowing with smugness and the satisfaction of someone who knows he just has to let his opponent keep talking to win, an assumption that was having more or less the same effect as the Tarnian threats of retaliation. No one could be sure what Vos would do to those who did not accept its righteousness and no one was in a hurry to find out.

Round and round they went, saying much and going nowhere. Xaaron's head filled with memories of burning towers and burning mechs. In his chest, he felt again the twisting blow of a bomb-burst, the shock wave of a detonation so close it scoured the armour from his back. He saw friends and enemies alike disappearing beneath the rubble. He tasted the stench of smoke and ignited fuel.

Haacano was railing against Vosian arrogance. Graviitus was scoffing at Tarnian belligerence.

And they. Would. Not. Stop.

"Enough!"

* * *

><p><strong>The Palace of Law<strong>

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

"Come in, my Lord Sarristec. I've been expecting you." Taynset was standing by the windows, optics turned to the sea of minarets. He had a goblet of high-grade energon in his hand, half-raised to his mouth.

Sarristec froze on the threshold. All of a sudden the elegant office and the elegant mech within seemed awfully like a trap waiting to be sprung. Every sense was screaming at him to get out of there, to turn and run before it was too late.

Why? Nothing had changed, had it? There was nothing more sinister in Lord Taynset's appearance than there had been on so many past visits. This was the inner sanctum, the place of true power in Vos but that was where Sarristec belonged. Taynset had as much as said so. Hadn't he?

Forcing his legs to function properly, he stepped inside and walked slowly towards the windows. The door slid silently shut behind him and then the room was a box, locked tight. No way in. No way out.

His feet were like blocks of lead, awkward and unwieldy. Taynset had not even turned to look at him yet Sarristec felt as if he was at the centre of a packed arena, a million people staring at him. Not adoring or cheering his every word, just...staring. When he threw a brief glance over his shoulder and saw the grey flunky standing quietly in the corner, his fuel pump nearly gave out in fright. He turned his head quickly away, wishing the mad wish that no one was there.

After an eternity of faltering steps, he was at Taynset's side. The blue flyer still did not look at him. The goblet hovered where it was, motion arrested before its time.

"My Lord." Sarristec bowed and flashed a humble smile. "Forgive the intrusion. There is a matter of some urgency I must bring to your attention. I have...that is to say, certain files have been forced upon me. I fear that...which is to say, I am concerned that there are factions within Vos that are continuing to –"

"Vvnet," Taynset said, lifting the energon and sipping it at last, "Yes. I know."

"Ah." Panic was creeping into Sarristec's processors now. The panic of not knowing where one stood, of not knowing the right answer. "Well, naturally I had to bring it to your attention. That there was a risk that these foul lies could escape into the public sphere, that I could have been – that she could have tried to make me act against you – the very idea that I could even begin to contemplate doing what she suggested – I had to come to you immediately so that we could stop this before it –"

Slowly, Taynset turned and looked him full in the face. His ruby optics glowed hypnotically, polished crest reflecting some of the sunset outside. "You came because you had to confront me," he explained, as one might explain gravity, "Because your ego would not allow you to do anything else. My Lord Sarristec must be the one to face the accused and persuade himself of innocent or guilt. My Lord Sarristec could never take the word of another or accept that his every success may have been engineered for the ambitions of another." He lifted the goblet again, tilting it in ironic salute. "My Lord Sarristec is obviously the centre of the universe."

Dumbfounded, Sarristec tried to voice some sort of protest, managing a few spluttering syllables that Taynset cut off with a waved hand. He moved to his desk and set the goblet down gently. Another brief gesture summoned a flock of holograms, abstract diagrams and readouts that Sarristec was too stunned to make any sense of. The High Lord of Vos settled himself in his chair, wings flapping once.

"It is always the same," he said, apparently to the holograms, "They never can see past their own pretensions. They always assume that they are favoured because they are special."

"Special?" Sarristec repeated, then louder, "Pretensions?!" Much to his own surprise, he sounded angry. "What are you talking about?" He _was_ angry. How dare Taynset sit there and – "I am a Lord of Vos! Do you have any idea of how hard I worked to get where I am?! I was elected on my merits! I _earned_ this position!"

"Perhaps," Taynset conceded, "but only because I allowed it."

"Allowed it?!"

"Yes." The blue mech pressed the tips of his fingers together. "This is my city. It has been for a very long time. Nothing of any significance happens here without my permission."

"The Conclave rules Vos! The Elite! We are the few who speak for the many, we are the ones who lead our people –"

Softly, Taynset began to laugh.

Infuriated by the sound, Sarristec lurched forward a few steps. A movement on the edge of his vision brought him up sharply. The grey mech in the corner nodded once and sank back into a neutral stance, the long-nosed blaster vanishing back into his arm. Sarristec stood very still, mid-stride, all his anger transformed into joint-locking terror. "We're not irrelevant..." he managed to say, pathetically, "_I_ am not irrelevant..."

"No. No, I suppose not. Within strict limits, you are very relevant." Taynset shrugged. "You are a voice. An attractive voice, a beautiful, passionate, stirring voice perhaps. But ultimately, that is all you are. That is all I have ever required of you. Every rally, every speech – the words were always be of my choosing."

"You – you _used_ me?!" _He is using you, little shooting star, just like he's using everyone of us._ That was what Vvnet had said. Maybe he had half-known that she was right, but Sarristec had not believed Taynset would acknowledge it aloud. Had wanted to believe he never would. "You used all of us?"

"Yes." Blunt. Callous. Honest. A single word to blow apart every last one of Sarristec's dreams.

In that moment, he wanted to kill Taynset more than anything he had ever wanted before in his life.

"Why?" he demanded, taking another step, beyond caring about the consequences, "_Why_?!"

Taynset's serene expression disintegrated. A sneer warped his face, twisting the mask of quiet wisdom with disgust. "To save Vos once and for all! To make this city greater than any other!"

A map rose out of the holographic cloud, the Qosho region in its entirety spreading out before them. "All of this is ours by right! Yet none of those who came before me were strong enough to claim it! Every concession they made to the Council, every treaty they signed with that festering sink hole of a city – all the weakness they showed – it cost us the glory we should have seized millennia ago! There should be no Tarn! There should only ever have been Vos!" Taynset's fist slammed into his desk. "We became a second-rate power, living in fear of that one-eyed emotionless freak!"

"Buh-but we know that!" Sarristec wailed, "We wanted to take Vos into the future, become the greatest city on the planet – we all wanted that! I wanted that! I've always wanted that!"

"Oh yes." Taynset's voice dropped back down to a purr. "Oh yes, you want it. You all _want_ it. But not a single one of you was ever prepared to do what was necessary to achieve it."

"To do..." Uncomprehending, Sarristec leaned closer. "What do you mean? We would have done anything. What weren't we prepared to do?"

"This," Taynset said and touched a button on the desk.

* * *

><p><strong>The Celestial Temple<strong>

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

Xaaron had the Council's full attention. His utter disregard for protocol by actually standing and striding into the middle of the circle guaranteed that. "Enough," he repeated in a slightly calmer tone, "We have heard these arguments over and over again. We have dissected them, demolished them, resurrected them and reiterated them until they have lost all meaning. This is all just noise! We are achieving nothing! Is this the leadership that Cybertron looks to us for?"

Discontented murmuring rose from the seats around him. He did not let them interrupt him. "In all the mega-cycles I have sat in this chamber, I have never before felt such shame at doing so. We are charged with carrying our city's voices. Each of us represents a government charged, in its turn, with supporting the hopes and wishes of our peoples, with guiding and protecting them and ruling over them with wisdom and respect. What does it say about us, our cities and our people that we are bickering over whether a war should be prevented? Not _how_ to prevent it. Not _what must be done_ to prevent it. But _whether we should stop it at all_! Where is the commitment to peace and unity on which this Council was founded? Where is the courage to admit that we have allowed this to go too far and to set about righting our mistakes?"

Graviitus began to speak, as did Haacano and they glared rockets at each other. Emirates of cities still aligned with Vos and Tarn exchanged nervous glances, the aether around them alive with crosstalk and instructions from home.

Xaaron steeled himself and continued. "The truth is that we have already failed. We have allowed ourselves to fall to infighting, to be swayed by – no!" he thundered over the chorus of angry shouts, drowning them by sheer volume, "No! We _have_ failed! We failed the moment we did not step back from this brink, the moment we did not unite and say to Tarn and to Vos, no more! We failed when we convinced ourselves that it was better to go along with them than to tell them that we would not stand for their flouting every treaty, every accord and every Covenant in the name of power!"

He looked around slowly, daring any of them to shout him down. None of them moved, not even Graviitus.

"So now I say we have forfeited our authority. We have lost the right to decide what is to be done because we cannot be trusted to do what is right and necessary. But there is one left who _does_ have that right, who _can_ do what is right, who _must_ act when we cannot." Xaaron turned and reached out his hand to the throne, so long forgotten outside the little political wars. "My Prime. In the name of Cybertron itself and all the children of Primus, I call on you to use your Right of Veto. Command the withdrawal of Vosian and Tarnian troops. Send in the Defence Directorate peacekeepers. Forbid this war, now, before it is too late. In the name of life itself, do what your Council cannot. _Stop this madness_."

Sentinel did not react at first. His white optics remained distant and his great frame remained still, as if it too were part of the throne and the Temple around him. He did not look up, did not give any indication that he had heard anything that had transpired. Horror mounted within Xaaron as he considered what would happen if his words really had had no effect.

And then the Prime's hand tightened on the shaft of his spear. With monumental solemnity, he rose to his feet, shedding his apathy like breaking ice. Planting his feet and lifting his spear from the floor, his eyes lighting anew with the fire of the Matrix, he spoke, his words filling the chamber as though it were the Temple itself come alive. "The Emirate of Nova Cronum is right. For too long I have sat and watched. There will be no war. Defence Directorate Command!"

Beams of light burst from the walls, weaving a hologram in the air above the circle. Three mechs, the Supreme Commanders of Cybertron's combined military, each staring in astonishment at the image of the Prime. "Commanders," Prime said, "Hear me –"

An alarm cut him off. Grandus and Deftwing turned away for a moment, looking at something out of the holo-field. When they looked back, one after the other, their faces were grim. _"Forgive me, my Prime," _Deftwing said, unnaturally calm, _"but please make this quick. Tarnian forces have just crossed the Vos border."_

* * *

><p><strong>The Palace of Law<strong>

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

Sarristec watched in utter confusion as icons representing Tarnian tank regiments slid inexorably across the line that divided one city from the other. Taynset merely nodded, as if this was just the final piece of some puzzle sliding neatly into place.

"How..." It was hard to know how to ask the question, let alone contemplate an answer. "How did you do that? How _could_ you do that?!"

Taynset hummed contentedly and smiled slightly. "A Tarnian communications encoder. Stolen from the forces deployed in Simfur under the cover of apparent sabotage. The coding on the transmission was probably not entirely accurate but under the circumstances, that did not matter. Those soldiers were just waiting for an excuse to attack."

"But –" Sarristec tried to grasp what he was hearing. "You can't have known that would work! Those are trained soldiers – Viilon's soldiers – they're – they wouldn't – you couldn't have just...told them to do what you wanted!"

"It is all a matter of background noise," Taynset said, tapping his fingers on his knee, "That is something Viilon has never really understood. He can build a perfect society along logical, rational lines, an emotionless city, free of distraction or complication or beauty. But he cannot control what people think. What they believe. What they _feel_. If the Tarnian people are angry, confused, frightened, ready to do anything to protect themselves...why then all the governor's tactical genius and precisely calculated plans are irrelevant. All undone by simple emotion. I just had to create atmosphere in which every Tarnian on that front line would obey any order given to them, so long as it was 'attack'."

It all slotted together in Sarristec's mind. In an instant, he knew what Taynset had done, as though it had already been explained. As if he had known all along. "The Mahlex District bombing. That...that started all this. That really was your doing?"

"Indirectly. I planted the idea. Gellrauon was pathetically eager to strike a blow against the enemy. Although I will grant that he almost did too good a job. His hired thugs were excellent at covering their tracks. Whisper there had to ensure that they did not properly dispose of one of their victims, to make certain they would be discovered."

The grey mech in the corner radiated satisfaction without his expression actually changing by more than a minuscule degree. Sarristec moved as far away from him as he dared, backing up against the windows.

"You can't have been sure it would have been found out," he insisted, "You can't have been sure about anything that happened afterwards! Are you telling me you gambled Vos' future on some crazy scheme to make the Tarnians think we were behind something while it looked to everyone else that we weren't?"

"Crazy?" Taynset seemed to consider the word. "No, I do not believe it could be called 'crazy'. Viilon is essentially predictable. I knew I could trust in his ability to uncover any scheme launched against him so I made a virtue of that. Besides, I had you. Even without that explosion, your oration would have had the most steadfast of Tarnian troopers reduced to rank paranoia."

Sarristec eyed the map, on which icons on both sides of the border were now writhing about and occasionally disappearing in flashes of casualty numbers. "So what now? You've started a war? Was the plan? Is that what all this has gotten you? Vosians dying at the hands of Tarnians?"

"Not at all." Taynset smiled again. "All this, as you put it, has gotten me a reason to fulfil our promise." His face darkened. "For every weapon fired, let a hundred more fall upon them."

New displays appeared, numbers rapidly scrolling down to zero, range-finders, authorisation codes. On the map, target locks materialised above Tarn.

"No!" Sarristec spun round in horror to see the missiles screaming up into the deepening night, flung high over the western horizon. The first salvo was barely out of sight when a second shot up, then a third, the flights so thick they blotted out the evening stars.

"Don't panic, my Lord Sarristec," Taynset soothed from behind him, "Our missiles contain enough anti-detection technology that Tarn's defences will not know they are there until they burst on the roof of the Central Processing Hub. Soon all that will be left of Viilon's Logical Revolution will be dust and ashes."

"No," Sarristec repeated, remembering when Lord Myyoc had told them about the missiles, about the technology used to hide them from detection, "The Dirvatech baffles. They were used in the bombing. Viilon might have found a way around them!" He looked back at Taynset, imploring him to see the truth. "They'll be detected! Don't you see? They'll be detected before they can destroy Tarn's ability to fire back! They'll fire on us, they'll send missiles back, photon warheads – you've got to stop it! Now! Cancel the attack, detonate the missiles before they hit, it's our only chance!"

But Taynset was not even listening to him any more. He was watching the display with rapt attention, waiting for the explosions that would level Tarn, content that his plans were about to come to pass. And there was 'Whisper', gun extended again, ready to spring forward and prevent any interference.

It was too late anyway. The missiles would already have reached their targets. Yes, there it was, the first bloom of heat and destruction, redrawing the map.

It was too late.

Sarristec transformed, unthinking panic driving him in a way no emotion had ever done so before. He pushed his thrusters as far as they would go, further, until he could feel his internals start to melt, and hurled himself at the windows. The pain of the impact was excruciating but the toughened panes shattered and the tower's defences were all designed to stop outside attack and then there was nothing to stop him.

Free, his engines shrieking in agony, he flew. He flew as fast and hard as he could, blindly, desperate to escape, knowing without a shadow of a doubt he would not.

Somewhere, high above, he imagined he could hear a thin whistling, just audible over the rush of air over his own wings. The whistling of something falling, closer and closer, phenomenally fast.

Then a sound like the sun ripping in half tore the world to cinders and the sky caught fire and all was light.


	35. Second Strike

**3.10: Second Strike**

**Defence Directorate Command Platform**

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Cybertron**

Ravage sprang out into the new-born evening and galloped to Megatron's side, head ringing with alarms and warnings. His commander was already issuing orders, voice booming across the camp as, high above on the Kahlian Ridge, gunfire ripped through the darkness.

"Optrion, take the advance force in on wheels and commence rapid strikes on all military targets. Maximum shock charges wherever possible, full-weapons free if necessary." He put a hand on the red and blue mech's shoulder. "I'm trusting you to do what has to be done."

The Iaconian saluted quickly, battle-mask sealing over his face. "I won't let you down, sir," he promised and flipped into truck mode, gunning his engine and racing away, the rest of his troops falling in behind him.

Megatron spun to the flyers and Air Guardians. "Bentwing, Contrail, get your mechs airborne ready to intercept a missile salvo. Go now, while we still have –"

"Stop!"

Vieuxuun stormed down the platform steps gesturing frantically. "Stop this at once! We have no authority! The Council has not –"

"The Council be damned!" Megatron roared, "Bentwing, go – all of you go! Stop those missiles!"

"That is an illegal command!" Vieuxuun shouted, jabbing a finger at the ground. "Anyone who obeys will be breaking their oath as a member of the Defence Directorate!"

"Bentwing, GO!"

The veteran flyer hesitated for a fraction of a micro-cycle, then flung himself into the air, folding into jet form, leaping towards the border –

A single shot punctured his fuselage just behind the nose-cone. The cobalt jet pitched dramatically and plunged back to the ground, striking hard enough to break open. An instant later, a line of fire coursed across his back, his fuel igniting under his skin. His body exploded into flames and thick, acrid smoke.

Those watching were a tableau, Megatron's mouth still open to shout his commands, Contrail halfway transformed, Vieuxuun's particle cannon glowing with the heat of the shot.

Ravage sprang. He slammed into the green Field Commander, claws sinking deep into parade-ground bright armour. His jaws closed around the particle cannon and ripped it free, flinging it away. A single slash of his tail sliced across Vieuxuun's legs, cutting deep, destroying essential mechanisms. They went down hard and Ravage pinned him to the ground, teeth held ready above his face.

"Hold him there!" Megatron bellowed, "Contrail, take the flyers NOW! Stop those missiles!"

Already it was too late. Ravage could hear the platform's sensors tracking launches across Vos, faulting as they tried to lock on to the missiles themselves. Barely a cycle later, Tarn's counter strike was away, just as slippery, just as deadly.

The centre of Tarn became a new star, whole buildings subliming into metallic gases. The heart of Vos vanished, spires flattened, minarets melted, palaces and plazas reduced to indistinguishable dust. Megatron stood silhouetted against twin suns, silver body blazing with reflected fire, every line quivering with helpless, futile rage.

Now, Ravage thought, digging his claws deeper into Vieuxuun's worthless hide, now at last my commander, you see.

At last you see how far Cybertron has fallen.

And at last you see what you must do to save it.

**End of Act 3**

* * *

><p><strong><span>Cast list for Act 3<span>**

**Name****(Nickname)****– Function****– Full****designation****[Name****– Base****Form****– Template****– Birthing****Well]**

**Sentinel****Prime** () – Prime of Cybertron

**Xaaron** () – Emirate of Nova Cronum – _Xa__Mech__Aron__Tava__Szenda_

**Graviitus** () – Emirate of Vos – _Gravi__Mech__Itus__Lyivas__Keldon_

**Haacano** () – Emirate of Tarn**–** _Haac__Mech__Ano__Tava__Szenda_

**Traachon** () – Emirate of Iacon – _Traac__Mech__Hon__Ias__Zar_

**Dionaat** () - Personal Assistant to Emirate Xaaron – _Dioa Mech At Cosa Hexus_

**Elita** () Temple Guard Commander

**Optrion** () – Defence Directorate Lieutenant Commander – _Op__Mech__Trion__Novus__Zar_

**Megatron** () – Defence Directorate Field Commander – _Mega__Mech__Tron__Tava__Szenda_

Rotec (**Bentwing**) – Defence Directorate Squad Leader – _Ro__Mech__Tec__Novus__Keldon_

(**Contrail**) – Air Guardian Commander

(**Aerodyne**) – Air Guardian

Zerinat (**Ironhide**) – Defence Directorate Trooper – _Zer__Mech__Inat__Cosa__Hexus_

Rahshiv (**Ravage**) – Defence Directorate Lieutenant – _Rah__Quad__Shiv__Temla__Corvis_

**Vieuxuun** () – Defence Directorate Field Commander – _Vieuz__Mech Uun Novus Hexus_

**Kavylaniiss** () - Captain of Space Freighter _Eskaan Var_ – _Kavylan Avir Iiss _

**Grandus** () – Defence Directorate Supreme Commander – _Grand__Mech__Us__Kolva__Szenda_

**Viktoleo** (Victory Leo) – Defence Directorate Supreme Commander – _Vikto__Mech__Leo__Lekto__Zar_

Torlaet (**Deftwing**) – Defence Directorate Supreme Commander – _Torl__Mech__Aet__Lyivas__Keldon_

**Taynset** () – High Lord of Vos – _Tayns__Mech__Et__Lyivas__Keldon_

**Sarristec** () – Lord of Vos – _Saris__Mech__Tec__Lyivas__Keldon_

**Geneion** () – Lord of Vos – _Genei__Mech__On__Lyivas__Keldon_

**Vvnet** () – Lord of Vos – _Vvn__Feme__Et__Lyivas__Tema_

**Omnitron** () – Lord of Vos – _Omni__Mech__Tron__Tava__Szenda_

**Myyoc** () – Lord of Vos – _Myy__Quad__Oc__Tava__Corvis_

**Zacarii** () – Palace of Law Attendant – _Zaca__Trac__Rii_ _Tava__Szenda_

(**Whisper**) – Vosian Secret Service Officer –

**Gellrauon** () – Vosian Businessmech – _Gellr Mech Auon Ardus Keldon_

Viilon (**Shockwave**) – Governor of Tarn – _Vii__Cyol__Lon__Dradia__Szenda_

**Velan**() – High Circuit Master

**Deca****Magnus**() – Civic Guard Supreme Commander

**Diatrion** – Civic Guard Investigator – _Dia__Mech__Trion__Novus__Zar_

Relshiv (**Glitter**) – Civic Guard Pathologist – _Rel__Quad__Shiv__Temla__Corvis_

Maszadep (**Nightbeat**) – Freelance Investigator – _Masz__Mech__Adep__Novus__Keldon_

**Gauun** () – Decal Designer – _Gau__Mech__Un__Verous__Klyda_

**Aratron** (Wheels) – Body-shop Worker – _Ara__Mech__Tron__Verous__Klyda_

Eimoril (**Needlenose**) – Fashion Feed personality – _Eimo__Mech__Ril__Novus__Keldon_

Jovandiim (**Grand****Slam**) – Reporter – _Jovan__Trac__Iim__Dradia__Corvis_

Liimorav (**Squawk****t****alk**) – Report, Tagen News Feed – _Liim__Avir__Orav__Novus__Corvis_


	36. After-image

**4.0: After-image**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

Within three cycles, the cities of Tarn and Vos had ceased to exist. When the light from the explosions cleared, what was left lay shattered and broken around the rims of the craters, wreathed in smoke and dust billowing up from the gaping wounds in the landscape. Along the Vosian coast, the heat boiled the Iron Sea to vapour. In Tarn's industrial out-lands, factories popped as cleanly as overheated rivets. Munitions, armed and ready for a pitched battle that never came, combusted in their silos, opening fresh chasms in the scorched ground.

Everywhere, people died. Those caught at ground zero were gone in an instant. Those unfortunate enough to be just outside the initial blasts faded more slowly, becoming their own funeral pyres as their fuel ignited in their bodies. Thousands more were left crushed under the wreckage, their lives seeping away as their consciousnesses shattered and distorted with the damage. By the time the echoes of the detonating photon bombs reached Tagen, five million people had been snuffed out. By the time the shock waves reached Kalis, another three hundred thousand had joined them in the Allspark.

The ground would not cool properly for days. From space, the glow of molten metal was a double blotch smeared across three continental plates. They would be distorted forever, marking a million stellar-cycles of history more indelibly than any tower or orbital hub.

Vos had been a jewel, a hymn to flight. Tarn had been a machine, a search for scientific perfection. In their time, they had been among the greatest cities ever built. Their enmity had shaped the world around them. Who would finally emerge from the inevitable conflict had been a topic of speculation and debate for mega-cycles.

Now the academics finally had their answer.

**Council Chamber**

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

The projectors filled the air above the circle with an unrelenting stream of devastation. Every sky-spy that got through the electromagnetic storm revealed some fresh scene of horror until it became impossible to distinguish the two cities any more and they threatened to blur into a single, immense vision of the Pit itself.

Xaaron let his optics fall. On opposite sides of the Council, the Emirates of Vos and Tarn watched their cities burn, their endless arguments finally rendered utterly meaningless.

"Vosian scum!" Hacaano howled, surging from his seat, transforming to tank mode as he came.

"Barbarians!" Graviitus rose into the air, thrusters blazing, wings snapping open.

Sentinel Prime's spear struck the floor like thunder. "SILENCE!"

They looked up at him in shock and dread, their anger crumbling into hopelessness. The spear slashed downwards in an arc of crackling light. "BEGONE FROM THIS PLACE! For the slaughter they have unleashed on their own citizens, Vos and Tarn are forever expelled from this Council!"

Dignity shredded, shame etched on their faces, the two mechs stumbled out of the circle and half-ran to the doors. They threw despairing looks back at the Prime and, seeing no mercy there, fled, their footsteps echoing back along the Temple's cavernous hallways.

His mouth set grimly, Sentinel spoke to the Supreme Commanders whose holograms still haunted the aether above the Council. "The Defence Directorate will deploy immediately to render aid to those caught up in this atrocity. You will disarm and contain any and all Vos and Tarn soldiers still functional and will extract all survivors to safety. Deca Magnus!"

Another hologram flared into existence, the massive figure of the Magnus jittering and shimmering with movement as it rendered him in the middle of frantic coordination. He bowed the briefest of bows to Sentinel. _"My Prime. Civic Guard units are on route to the disaster zone. Special medical teams have already reached the Qosho Region and will be on the ground in less then two deca-cycles."_

"We are grateful for your swiftness of action, Magnus. Defence Directorate forces are on their way as well."

Magnus nodded. _"So I understand. That's good. We are going to need as much help as we can get. Now, forgive me, my Prime, I am boarding a flight as we speak –"_

"Go well. You have the full backing of the Council. Whatever you need, you shall have."

Deca's image vanished and Xaaron wondered if the practical-minded mech believed that the Council really would be bound by that promise – if anyone from the highest Elite to the lowest labour grade would believe it. On recent evidence, it would have been easy to think otherwise. Even the Prime's intervention had come so late in the day as to be ultimately useless.

Sacred trusts had been shattered, perhaps irrevocably. The consequences were appalling and were counted in the number of the dead. To set it all right was going to take a great deal of will and effort, more perhaps than Cybertron's many governments had shown since their foundations.

Xaaron quietly resumed his seat and signalled for his brother Emirates' attention.

There was no more time to waste.


	37. Breaking the Spear

**4.2:**** Breaking the Spear**

**Defence**** Directorate Command Platform**

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

"Report. Quickly."

"We have isolated the remaining Vosian command units and are standing by to shut them down. Air Guardians have been dispatched to take point at all locations but are facing heavy fire from Vos' surviving aerial forces. A lot of their heavy flyers are more manoeuvrable than anything we have and they're taking a long time to go down."

"Send in the squads to take out the command units now."

The tactician – Megatron had barely registered his security clearance, let alone his name – hesitated. "Sir . . . without Air Guardian support, I'm not sure they'll have the fire power to overwhelm –"

"I don't need them to overwhelm the Vosians, I need them to keep them so occupied they can't keep coordinating the forces preventing the Air Guardians from getting through. Do it."

"Oh. Yes, Commander. Of course."

Megatron rounded on the other side of the war room. "The Tarnian situation?"

"Almost no central control of remaining city forces." Hevacce pointed at the scattered icons on the map. "They're totally uncoordinated. We're seeing groups of them firing on anything that moves, others throwing down their guns to help civilians. Not that that's making it any easier to contain them. Tarn's topography is too complicated – there are too many places for them to dig in and they are much better at weathering aerial bombardment than the Vosians."

"Use the sub-surface passages," Megatron ordered, commanding the map to show the layers beneath the streets and expressways, "Optrion and Turbo have been able to make use of them at close range. Let's expand on the idea. Send in driller squads to get in under the hold-outs."

"I'll get on it." Hevacce refocused the view and highlighted several large structures. "These will be another matter. Most of the central bunkers were cracked open by the blast but these are still mostly intact . . . and if those warheads didn't get through . . ."

"For now, we do nothing. They haven't fired on the rescue teams sent into those areas. Until they do or until they send out more soldiers to attack the Vosians, we're not wasting resources on them."

"Understood."

The red squad leader turned away to begin issuing orders. Megatron took a long look at the map, considering the shifts in geography the twin missile strikes had caused. So much destruction, so little purpose to it all. Had any of those responsible survived their idiocy? His fists closed involuntarily. For their sake, he hoped not.

"I will move in to join the ground forces in Vos," he announced to the room at large, "I want two heavy squads ready to depart in three cycles. We'll clear a path for the rescue teams and reinforce the containment squads. The Vosian commanders' most likely rallying point will be here, the Coppermount fortress. We'll co-opt any local defences along the approach corridors and let them retreat towards us. That way we decide the terms of engagement and minimise further collateral damage."

A flurry of activity met his words, the preparations getting under way before he had finished laying out the plan. He flashed load-out instructions and route maps as he spoke, updating the map and his mechs simultaneously. In moments, the tank squads would be armed, fuelled and ready to board the combat shuttles. If all went well, they could slip in amidst the chaos in the skies over Vos and be on the slopes of Coppermount before any of the locals were any the wiser.

If all went well. As he headed for the door, Ravage slipping after him, Megatron sneered at the phrase. Nothing about this insanity had gone well so far. Could he really believe this to be the exception?

"A moment of your time, Field Commander?"

He stopped abruptly at the interruption, ready to snap angrily at whoever was making such a stupid request. Supreme Commander Viktoleo met his glare with mild blue optics and the most patient of expressions.

Megatron saluted automatically. "Sir. I'm afraid I need to deploy out into the field immediately," he added, trying not to sound unsure as to what in the Pit a Supreme Commander was doing in his command platform.

"I promise not to detain you for long. And I believe there are still two and a half of those three cycles you mentioned remaining . . . ?"

There was absolutely no way to refuse. Not without going against every shred of protocol and openly insulting one of the three highest-ranking members of the Defence Directorate. Megatron gestured to the corridor outside. "Of course, sir. If we can talk on the way?"

Viktoleo nodded graciously and fell into step beside him, perfectly matching his long strides. "This is extremely inconvenient for you so I will cut straight to the point," he said, vocalising it so that only Megatron – and Ravage, of course – could hear him, "Field Commander Vieuxuun."

Megatron nearly crashed to a halt again. "What about him?"

"He is currently sitting mode-locked in a detainment cell with several severe injuries to his outer armour and weapons systems. You appreciate that this is not a natural position for a ranking office of the Defence Directorate to be in."

"I put him there." Megatron made a cutting gesture. "I take full responsibility and will answer for it later if needed to. But right now –"

"Right now you are doing an admirable job of dragging some sort of organised response out of this disaster. Which I am here to help with by telling you that we back your judgement entirely in this matter."

This time, Megatron did stop. "Excuse me?"

Viktoleo's mouth formed something that was almost but not quite a smile. "Effective immediately, your decision to relieve Vieuxuun of duty has the retroactive approval of Grandus, Deftwing and myself. Your actions in moving swiftly and decisively to disable the Vos and Tarn military infrastructure have our complete backing and all the available forces are indisputably under your command."

"You came here to tell me that I have the job I already had?" Megatron asked in disbelief, "And that locking up the mech who murdered one of my best soldiers was the right thing to do?" He did not know whether to be relieved or disgusted.

"Not at all. I am here to be seen to give our approval to you for the benefit of everyone watching this crisis unfold and believe me, that is everyone who can watch." Bafflement must have shown on Megatron's face because Viktoleo went on, "Consider this a signifier of your authority. Not for your troops, but for the world outside the Defence Directorate. By being seen to come here and emerge at your side as you go off to bring an end to this conflict, I am showing Cybertron as a whole that you are the legitimate instrument by which order will be restored – rather than, say, a lone field commander who astronomically exceeded the remit of his orders to launch a two-pronged invasion of two sovereign states with a hilariously out-numbered contingent of planetary defence soldiers."

"With the greatest of respect," Megatron said firmly, "I do not have time to play political games."

"No," Viktoleo said, matching his tone exactly, "That is why we are playing them for you. But make no mistake about this, Field Commander: everything you do from here on out will have political ramifications. The Prime himself authorised – _commanded_ – this intervention. You understand? We are conferring on you_ Primal authority_."

He stared at the Supreme Commander, not really seeing him at all. Primal authority. The permission of the Prime to cut through the ridiculous snarl of laws and regulations that had kept them from doing anything until it was too late. Legitimacy for what he needed to do. Although not necessarily to do whatever it took. And all the consequences that came with that. The responsibilities. The weight of expectation, anticipation, speculation and condemnation. As Viktoleo said: political ramifications. All on him.

"I understand," he acknowledged solemnly, placing his fist against his chest, "I will do what I must and what I can to save these people."

"We know." The Supreme Commander returned the salute, horns tilting slightly. "That is why we're giving you the job. Now." He indicated the platform exit. "Let me walk you to your dropship. Wouldn't want you to be late with the world watching, would we?"

* * *

><p><strong>Iesyn District<strong>

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

"Please! If you won't stand down, at least let us airlift the civilians out of here! We know they must be heavily injured! Please let us remove them to a safer area for medical treatment! At least let us –!"

Optrion ducked quickly back behind a barricade, nano-cycles ahead of a blaster bolt. He leaned heavily against the reinforced barrier and grunted. "I'm getting a bit tired of people trying to shoot me in the head."

"It gets a bit dull after a while, yeah," Trailbreaker agreed from his observation post a few barriers along, "Although I don't think shouting at them any louder's gonna help, actually."

"Any other suggestions gratefully received."

"Uh." Quasar held up her fingers. "They're walled up tight in that refinery. By walls, we mean massively thick shields meant to contain energon detonations. Even if we could blast through, there are still energon stores in there. And a bunch of civilians that those soldiers have rounded up believing they're protecting them from an invading army. And we can't get around the back because of that . . . um . . . I'm _trying_ to come up with a better description than 'wall of fire' but I'm not sure how else to describe what happens when you use a photon bomb to ignite an entire fuel distribution network. Also there's so much radiation this far into the city that the civilians are probably already cooking in their own oil, so if we don't get them out soon . . . uh. So, in short . . . um . . . I got nothing." She slumped despondently. "Sorry sir."

Adjusting his optics yet again to try and compensate for the fierce light, Optrion looked at the troops lined up awkwardly beside him. Despondency hung heavy in the boiling air. Everyone present was sullen and frustrated, trying hard to concentrate as every cooling system in their bodies strained against the heat from the fires. A few were uncomfortably adjusting and readjusting their weapons, the more technically minded among them trying to configure their way to a solution. Unfortunately, so far no one had come forward with an inventive way of melting the refinery shields or opening a fold-space aperture through them or something equally useful.

Perhaps if they had another means besides shouting to communicate with the entrenched Tarnian soldiers, more options would be apparent. But this deep into the city the interference was so thick every communication channel had been ripped to random shrieks.

Perhaps it would have made no difference. The Tarnians did not want to listen. Trapped as they were in the burning wreckage of their home, it was understandable that they would prefer to shoot anyone who came close.

Optrion slammed a fist into an open hand. No way to talk them down, no way to flank them, no way to breech the walls or burrow underneath and certainly no chance of taking them safely from the air. This was Cybertron. Not an alien planet with unknown geography and geology. This was his home territory. That should have been all the advantage he needed. Yet a strategy evaded him and his failure would likely trap them in a pointless siege.

"Excuse me? Commander Optrion?"

Grateful for the slightest distraction, he turned to find a short white and blue armoured mech clambering towards him. "That's me. You're with the Civic Guard?"

"Ah, yes. I'm Chief Medic Coiiynn – ah, I need to talk to you about those people in their."

"If you have a way of getting them out of there, please feel free to share it."

"Ah . . . I'm afraid not. It's the civilians." Coiiynn fiddled with the wheels in his forearms. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you that they're in danger. Your sky-spy operators tell me that the shields on the other side of the refinery are cracked. The radiation is hard enough on us – and we've all been toughened. What I'm saying is that, in my opinion, we can't draw this out more than another day before the people in their start to suffer irreparable damage. Even your mechs aren't going to be able to weather this indefinitely."

Trying very hard to remain patient, Optrion fixed the little medic with a level stare. "I am well aware of the danger, Chief Medic. I fully intend to resolve this situation soon."

"Yes. Of course. I'm sorry. I just feel . . . rather useless standing out here." He hesitated, then looked down at his feet. "The worst of it is, I'm Tarnian. I feel that should give me some insight I could offer you."

"You're . . . Tarnian?" Optrion did not mean to sound so surprised but Coiiynn seemed resigned to the response, not offended.

"Before I joined the Guard, yes. I know, I know. I'm very short for it. As I say, I feel I should be able to give you some psychological insight that'll let you talk them down."

"But you can't?"

"No." Coiiynn grimaced. "They're Tarnians. Stubborn, patriotic, scared, angry Tarnians. They won't come out because they don't trust anything outside. I can't honestly say I blame them."

It was so obvious that Optrion audibly cursed himself for not thinking of it immediately.

He spun, leaving Coiiynn to splutter in surprise. "Quasar – how far out would you need to get a transmission through to the command network?"

"Um – I – ah – two, three hix to minimum clearance? I'm not sure but if I run it at maximum power I think I could get through at two."

"Then I need you to do that as fast as possible and send this to all points . . ."

* * *

><p><strong>Coppermount<strong>

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

Megatron roared, guns flaring one after the other, broadsiding the jet trying to bank out of his line of fire. He wheeled around as its wing-mates tried to follow through on dive-bombing him, blowing their wings from their fuselages. The Vosians plummeted from the sky, helpless and screaming.

All along the ground approach to Coppermount, Defence Directorate tanks were pounding away at Vosian squadrons. They kept coming and throwing themselves towards the fortress. Seeking sanctuary, trying to regroup, simply attempting to drive out the intruding forces – Megatron did not know and did not care. What mattered was that they were being drawn there, away from any civilians who might get caught in the crossfire. As long as they kept funnelling themselves into the killing zone, he was content to take them down.

Coppermount stood on the far side of Vos from Tarn, a defiant red shard stabbing at the sky. A relic of the distant past, it had been left behind by modern Vos as the centre of the city moved towards the coastal trade routes. It had not been forgotten – modern emplacements peered from the battlements and modern weapons ringed the perimeter – but that had almost been a reflex action, the Vosian military adhering to old habits out of a sense of tradition. It was only now that everything else was gone that it seemed like a reasonable place to fall back to. Perhaps they thought that behind the solid, reliable walls of the past they would be safe from the insanity of the present.

Idiots.

He surged forward into the fire from another wave of flyers. They were good – very good – dodging and weaving and banking and breaking off with expert timing. It earned them a few extra cycles of consciousness and wasted a few more cycles of his time. Subduing morons who could not see that there was nothing left to fight for was a distraction best ended quickly. Soon the only ones left flying would be the ones with some actual ability. And that would just draw it out further.

"_Commander."_ Ravage's voice buzzed inside his head. _"Optrion has just sent a request into the command net that you should see."_

Pausing long enough to transform and boost himself to a more secure position, Megatron acknowledged. If Ravage felt something important enough to disturb him with mid-battle, it was. _"Go on."_

"_He has just asked that the highest ranking Tarnian officer who has either stood down or been placed in custody be taken to his current location. He . . . believes that they will help him resolve a situation he has encountered."_

"_Authorised,"_ Megatron said without hesitation, folding back down and reopening fire. It was easy to see what Optrion was planning and it might even work. The Tarnian ethos under Viilon had always included faith in authority.

"_Understood,"_ Ravage purred, with the faintest hint of criticism of how fast he was to trust 'the Iaconian'. But that was Ravage. No faith in anyone.

Still the Vosians kept coming. Still they threw themselves towards Coppermount and against the Defence Directorate. Was that a lack of faith too? A lack of trust of anyone now their world was destroyed?

It did not matter. He would keep shooting them down until they learnt to stay there.

Perhaps then they might start listening to reason.

* * *

><p><strong>Keesin District<strong>

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

"They're here!" Trailbreaker pointed to the white spot of a shuttle flying low over the expressway towards them. Ordinarily the gesture would have seemed silly but with the heat and the radiation swamping their sensors, looking and pointing was pretty much all they had left.

The shuttle carefully touched down on a piece of intact roadway, settling uneasily. Its side opened up and two figures jumped out, one jumping again into a jet form and allowing the other to grab hold. They flew up to the barricade, coming swiftly and as close to the ground as possible to avoid taking fire from the Tarnians.

The passenger – a truly gigantic grey and blue mech – dropped down right in front of Optrion and saluted smartly. The jet unfolded into Deca Magnus, at which point everyone else saluted.

"Sir." Optrion stepped forward. "Forgive me, this is unexpected."

"No doubt." Deca indicated the grey mech. "I was in discussion with the captain here when your message came through. We agreed it would be quickest to use my shuttle and while I admit I am unlikely to be much help in talking these soldiers down, I hoped I might be able to offer some assistance."

"Ah, thank you, sir . . ."

"Don't mind me, Commander. Consider an me observer until you need me to be otherwise. Continue as you planned. This is your operation."

Trying not to find that statement overly ominous, Optrion turned to the Tarnian captain. He had red optics and a solid frame that suggested he turned into something heavily armed and immobile. "You want me to talk to them," he said, nodding at the refinery.

"Yes. I know you stood your mechs down to help with the relief effort and I hoped that you might be able to convince these soldiers to do so as well. There are a significant number of civilians in with them and we need to get them to safety as soon as possible."

"I understand. I will do it. I don't suppose you can get a channel through this . . . ? No of course not. Very well then."

He stepped up to the barricade and out into the gap between two of the barriers. A shot immediately ricochetted off his armour, though this caused him little obvious damage. He stood out in the open, letting the Tarnians see him clearly. They did not fire again.

"I AM CAPTAIN Ci-114 OF THE THIRD DEFENCE UNIT," he shouted in a voice that shook the ground, "MY NAME IS CERRE MECH BOS TAVA SZENDA. I AM OF TARN. LIKE YOU. I AM SOLDIER, LIKE YOU. AND LIKE YOU I HAVE WATCHED MY HOME DIE. EVERYTHING I WAS SUPPOSED TO DEFEND IS DESTROYED. THIS IS WRONG. THIS IS UNFORGIVABLE. AND YOU ARE RIGHT TO TRY TO PROTECT THOSE WHO SURVIVED. YOU HAVE DONE YOUR DUTY. BUT YOU CANNOT STAY HERE. THE PEOPLE YOU ARE PROTECTING CANNOT STAY HERE. I KNOW YOU WANT TO FIGHT. I KNOW YOU DON'T TRUST THOSE WHO HAVE COME INTO OUR CITY. I DIDN'T. BUT THIS IS TOO BIG. THERE ARE TOO MANY WOUNDED. WE CANNOT DRIVE OUT THE DEFENCE DIRECTORATE AND SAVE OUR BROTHERS AT THE SAME TIME. WE . . . NEED THESE PEOPLE TO HELP US. OUR DUTY HAS TO BE TO THE SURVIVORS NOW. PLEASE DON'T LET ANY MORE TARNIANS DIE TODAY."

Falling silent, he waited. They all waited. Optrion scanned the refinery, looking as best he could for any sign that Cerrebos' words had fallen on receptive audios. For a very long time, there was nothing. No shots, no open doors. Nothing.

Cerreboss shifted his stance, looking back at the rest of them uncertainly. Trailbreaker fidgeted about, half readying his forcefield projectors. Quasar's emitters snapped open and closed compulsively. Arms folded, the Magnus remained utterly impassive.

Something moved at the top of the refinery wall. A shape against the sky. It rose up and detached itself, a mech leaping over the edge and falling towards them. Slowing his descent with jet plumes, he dropped closer until he could land in front of Cerrebos. Massive, with the same grey/blue colour scheme, he was clearly of a kind with the Tarnian captain. He did not make any gesture of respect or recognition but looked Cerrebos up and down, then glanced past him at the Defence Directorate soldiers. When he saw the Magnus, his optics widened. "Sub-Captain Ci-086-6," he introduced himself after a moment, "of the Seventh Defence Unit. For standing down when there are invaders in the city, I should consider you a traitor."

"I can't argue with that," Cerrebos replied evenly, "I disobeyed my orders. But the Central Command is gone. The High Governor is gone. Tarn itself barely exists any more. Primus, even the enemy is gone. All we have left are the people and we won't protect them by fighting these people." He waved one massive hand at Optrion and the Magnus and the rest of them.

Ci-086-6's optics flared slightly. "I know. I understand that. I don't like it but I understand it." Drawing himself up, he went on, "Which is why we'll allow you to enter and evacuate the civilians. Just the soldiers. Not the White and Blues." He stabbed a finger at the Magnus. "They betrayed us, covering up for those Pit-damned Vosians. Soldiers only. Understood?"

"Yes," Optrion agreed, because it seemed this last was addressed to him, "What about you though? Your mechs?"

"We're staying," Ci-086-6 told him flatly, faceplates tightened. "We've all agreed. Everything's gone. It's all over. But we'll do our duty. Protect this place, what's left of it. There's nothing for us out here. We're staying."

Cerrebos opened his mouth to argue but it was Coiiynn who spoke first. The little medic had been standing forgotten off to one side and he stepped forward angrily. "You can't. You'll die. Even if you can survive it for now, constant exposure will kill you. You're armours' already starting to ionise. If you stay here –"

"Then we die here."

"But –"

"Medic, stand down," the Magnus ordered quietly. He was looking at the ground now, his fists resting against his hips. "This is wasting time."

"Yeah." Ci-086-6 sneered. "It is." He turned to Cerrebos one final time. "You are a traitor. You should have done what we were built for. But . . . if you can live with that . . . make sure something good comes out of this."

"I'll protect our people," the captain promised, offering his hand.

Ci-086-6 gripped it briefly, then spun and made finger signals at the refinery. Painfully slowly, the shield cracked open, a bridge reaching out over to the barricade. Not looking back, the Tarnian soldier marched stiffly away across to the gaping doorway, where his comrades were already beginning to guide walking wounded into the open.

Cerrebos watched him go sadly. Coiiynn all but stamped his foot in frustration, biting off a bitter curse.

Determined that no more time would be wasted, Optrion ordered his mechs to fold away the barricade and begin extracting the Tarnian civilians. He sent Trailbreaker up to generate a forcefield bubble around those most in danger from exposure to the fallout and had Quasar go and summon their shuttles. The Civic Guard medics would board the transports to treat injuries on route back to the main infirmary camps while the military medics did the work on the ground. That way they could keep Ci-086-6's conditions and still make use of the resources to hand.

Directing his troops' efforts, Optrion found himself standing next to Cerrebos. The Tarnian's face was blank as he watched the first civilians crossing the bridge.

"Thank you."

Cerrebos looked down in surprise. "There is nothing to thank me for, Commander. I did this for my people, not for you."

"I know."

"May I stay?" he asked, "To help. Perhaps I can reassure them that they won't be harmed."

"I think that would be an extremely good idea." Optrion frowned, then said, "If you don't mind me asking, what did he mean, what you were built for?"

The captain did not answer for several micro-cycles. When he did, it was reluctantly. "I . . . he and I are . . . they called us Fortresses. We were supposed to be the first line of defence against a ground invasion. They remade us. Gave us one function. Fight to the death to keep the enemy out. We should all have died before allowing a single Vosian to enter the city. But . . ." He rolled his huge shoulders. "They didn't need to, did they?"

"No." The Magnus had come up beside them, footsteps masked by the surrounding din. "They did not." The light turned the white of his armour fiery.

"Why?" Cerrebos whispered, his optics reflecting that same fire, "Why did they . . . why did it come to this?"

Optrion had no answer for him. And if the Magnus did, he kept silent about it.


	38. SurvivorGuilt

**4.3:**** Survivor/Guilt**

**Remains of the Torvccl Galleries**

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

It was dark and he was in pain.

He was in pain and he could not see. Could not move.

He could not move, he could not see and everything hurt. Oh Primus, was he dead? Was this death? Being trapped in darkness and pain, unable to move?

No. He was thinking. He could think and feel and so he must still be alive. Trapped. Nose-cone. Wings. Trapped. Engines burnt out. Fused. Pinned. Something was pinning him down. There was something immensely heavy pressing on top of him, pressing him into the ground. No room to transform. No room to do anything. And the parts of him that did not hurt, he could not feel at all.

Sarristec began to panic.

Time passed. He had no idea how long. The world stayed dark. Sometimes his consciousness faded out completely. The pain persisted.

In a more lucid moment, it occurred to him that that was a good thing. If he hurt all over, then his spark could not have been scattered. He was still a coherent whole.

But then . . . what about the parts of himself he could not feel? Did that mean that parts of his mind had just gone? No. No, that couldn't be true. It _couldn't_.

Light. A chink of light falling across his fuselage. Noise too. Voices.

Rescue!

He tried to call out, to scream at them so they would come and save him. His voice would not respond. His antenna stayed silent. Nothing responded. Everything was locked up, blank, crying out in agony.

It couldn't end like this. It couldn't.

It could. He could die here. Salvation could pass him by. Easily. He could so easily be beneath its notice.

Beneath everything's notice.

No! No. Please, no. Please –

"Hey! We got a live one here! Help me get this lot shifted!"

Vibrations reached him dimly through his prison walls. Footsteps hurrying. The straining of pistons and servos. The chink of light wobbled and distorted and split wide open. Air and dust rushed about as the rubble above him – yes, rubble, that was what it was, of course – was lifted away. Suddenly, he could move again. Could flex his wings, however weakly. Fresh pain flooded his body as he did so. Grit ground in his joints. His tail-fins were twisted beyond use. Nothing felt the right shape.

But he was rescued. He would live. That mattered. That was all that mattered.

Someone jumped down close by. A green mech. Lithe. Blue optics. Big hands. He carefully cleared the wreckage from around Sarristec, easing him free. He spoke as he did it, reassuring words about everything being all right. With a shout, he summoned other mechs, a hexe, two quads. Together, they lifted Sarristec up and away, carrying him roughly out into a big flat space and setting him down there. One of the quads fiddled with a canister and connected it to his side.

There was a rush of liquid power. Fuel. Precious energon flooding into empty tubes. Awareness came with it, connections restoring, repair systems coming online at last. He could think properly again. His body was his again. He could remember –

In one great spasm, he transformed and screamed with the agony of it. He collapsed to the ground whimpering. The green mech and the quad offered reassuring hands, helping him ease into a sitting position. "Easy there, lad," said the mech, patting his shoulder, "Take it easy. You're doin' fine."

Sarristec ground his mouth shut and fought through the hurt. He let automatic processes numb the parts that were beyond repair, let them consolidate him within safer places. Slowly, oh so very slowly, his mind focused.

The ground before his optics was blackened and covered in fragments of melted glass. There was a shard of a girder. A distorted frame. The grotesquely warped remains of someone's leg. All wrong. The ground should not look like that.

He lifted his head.

Desolation. Utter and complete desolation in every direction as far as he could see. The world had been turned to black and grey. His city, his glorious Vos had been broken. Smashed. Ravaged. A landscape that had made the spark soar had turned to a wasteland of husks and broken shells. He no longer recognised it. Every landmark had been burnt away. Where once was beauty and glamour and greatness, now was only destruction and defeat.

Sarristec hugged himself, desperate not to believe it. It had to look worse than it was. There had to be something left. There _had to be_.

Missile locks on Taynset's displays. Columns of fire diving into the night sky. Light beyond description. The howl of a new-born star.

No. This was real. There was no escape from that.

No escape . . .

"What's your name, lad?" asked the green mech kindly, kneeling beside him.

Sarristec met his optic. "Zacarii," he said shakily, lying on instinct, picking the first name he could think of.

"Nice to meet'cha, Zacarii. I'm Pikup. I'm with planetary defence. We're pulling all survivors out'a the city and taking 'em to a safe medical camp. You feeling up to the trip?"

"Y-yes." Yes, oh yes. He had to get away from this place, away from the corpse of everything he had ever known and ever wanted.

Away from the betrayal and the destruction and the memories.

He let Pikup help him to his feet, wobbling uncertainly as he tried to walk. It became easier after a few steps and weak as he was, he was able to make it to the soldiers' transport under his own power. There was seven, eight other Vosians crammed into the little shuttle, all coated in grime and crush injuries, all staring out at what was left of their home. They glanced Sarristec's way as he got on board but there was no recognition there. No doubt he was just as dirty as they were, everything unique and special buried under filth.

Good. That was good. The soldiers had freed him from the wreckage. Anonymity would free him from . . .

Reprisals? Recriminations? _Guilt_?

Settling awkwardly against the bulkhead, he put his head in his hands, hiding his face just to be sure. Free to make a fresh start, that was it. A fresh start without having to fear the misguided anger of those who would not understand that he too had been betrayed. Because there would be such people. There always were.

So he would be Sarristec of Vos no longer. He was Zacarii, lucky survivor, victim like all the rest. Just another lost nonentity, blasted back to square one.

A mech to whom the only way was up.

* * *

><p><strong>Aratoq Tower<strong>

**Red Ridge District**

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

"_Causality estimates are still climbing as rescue teams continue to scour the ruins for survivors. Current reports indicate that seventeen thousand people have been brought to temporary shelters on safe ground to the north of the Kahlian Ridge where they are receiving emergency treatment. There are now over three thousand Defence Directorate and Civic Guard officers in the region with more expected to be sent in tomorrow morning. Word on the ground is that ongoing hostilities with the remains of the Vosian army are winding down following yesterday's pitched battle at the Coppermount fortress. Sporadic fighting is continuing in Tarn, impeding the rescue effort in several key sectors, but there are reports from both cities of military units voluntarily standing down or surrendering –"_

"Why the scrap are you stuck back here on your own?" Gauun demanded, putting his head through the doorway with a scowl.

"Shut up." Aratron did not look away from the newsfeed. He could not. For as long as the report had been running, he had been standing there, fixated on every picture of death and destruction, trying to . . .

He wasn't sure what. Understand it? Grasp the scale of it? Imagine what it was like for those who woke up to find their homes blown down around them, their friends gone? All of those things. The things you were supposed to do with tragedy. Empathise. Feel sorry about it. Grieve for people you'd never known. The things you were supposed to feel before getting on with life like nothing had happened.

"It's on all the 'feeds out here, too," Gauun pointed out uncertainly, failing to keep quiet because, well, because it was Gauun, "You don't have to watch it alone . . ."

"Yeah, and I don't have to watch it surrounded by people going, 'well, this will put a bit of a dent in my investments and no mistake. Another tube of Hiverin Special, anyone?' either."

"None of them talk like that . . ."

Aratron shut his mouth tightly.

" – _extensive ramifications in the political sphere. Questions are being asked at the highest level as to how the situation was allowed to deteriorate into all-out war. Already, there have been calls for many high-ranking officials to resign. In Kalis and Prodium, protesters have taken to the streets demanding immediate elections. The standing governments are known to have supported Vos and to have helped the Vosian Conclave block disarmament proposals put to the High Council –"_

"D'you remember Xennatron? Same batch as me?" Aratron shuttered his optics to block out the images of banners and slogans. "He was the first one to call me Wheels after you. Made Merchant Guild in less than seven stellar-cycles? He set up in Vos. Stellar-cycles ago now. Haven't seen the guy since we were protoed. And we didn't have anything in common except batch. . ." He trailed off, hissing. "And now all I can think is, was he in there? Did he get out or is he . . . is he dead? All those people and I'm just imagining this one mech . . ."

"But that's . . ." Gauun moved closer behind him. He reached out, almost touching, then thinking better of it. "That's just psychology, right? Association – uh, cognitive filtering. Picks out what you know first. It's normal, yeah?"

"I don't even know if he was still working there. No idea what kind of person he was. No idea what kind of person any of them were, except what everyone thinks about Vosians and Tarnians."

This time, Gauun put his hand on Aratron's shoulder. "Hey, it's OK. Really. I get it. This is . . . glitch it, there aren't words for this stuff. This . . . slag like this isn't supposed to happen. No one's supposed to die like that. Pit, how many people have you ever heard of dying like that? I heard once about this kind of organic turbo rat out on one of the colonies, lives and dies in the space of a quartex. How does that even work? How does it get anything done? That's not how life's supposed to work. And then this . . ."

Aratron reached up and slapped his own hand across Gauun's. He took the hint this time and fell silent.

" – _coming in of renewed riots in Tagen Heights following clashes between Tarnian and Vosian freighter crews. The fighting appears to have spilled out of the dockyards and is spreading down into the city wards. Civic Guardsmechs are in attendance but their numbers are drastically reduced given commitments in the disaster area itself. More on these events as they develop."_

"Sorry," Aratron said quietly.

"What for?"

"For . . . I don't know. Telling you to shut up."

"You always tell me to shut up."

"I just . . . those people out there . . . not now. Not now."

Gauun's fingers twitched. "Then I'm sorry. I shouldn't have dragged you to this stupid party in the first place. I don't know most of these people. I don't like 'em much either. They don't care about art. Weird. All the money they spend on it and I don't think any of them really get it at all. But it's the boss-mech's show and he wants – wanted – to show me off, I guess. A bit. My work, anyway. And I wanted to have someone to talk to – slag. You know that. It doesn't matter. You don't want to be here, I don't want to be here and I'm just talking to say something because . . ."

"Because that's what you do." Aratron didn't – couldn't – smile. But he would have done, if they'd been somewhere else and the newsfeed was not showing what it was.

"_Following the Defence Directorate's seizing of the orbital refineries formally under the control of Vosian interests, the Altihex Polity has petitioned the High Council for permission to take over running the operation. Given the extensive nature of the facilities in question, however, it is likely that there will be considerable competition for their future ownership. A tense stand-off between a squadron of Air Guardians and the crew of the primary Tarnian refinery is now entering its second hecta-cycle. The crew are refusing to stand down and allow the military to take them off. They have deployed a number of weapons that greatly exceed the strictures on armaments aboard civilian orbital platforms. Analysts have suggested that they represent clear evidence of how far Tarn had flouted the Inter-State Accords on a far deeper level than previously suspected."_

"Do you want to leave?" Gauun asked tentatively, "I mean, leave the party properly. Go somewhere else. Um. Somewhere you want to be."

"I know what you meant. Thanks. But you can't just run out on your patron, can you?"

"He'll understand. He's very . . . understanding."

"Really?"

"I dunno. I hope he is. Especially since my last design went horribly wrong. Really bad day. Turns out too much high-grade makes me thing orange on amber on orange chrome is a good idea."

Shrugging off Gauun's hand, Aratron half turned around. "The world has gone crazy, more people than I've ever met are dead and you're making stupid colour-scheme jokes?"

"What else am I supposed to do?" He flung his arms wide, the wheels in his legs jittering on their axles. "I can't do anything about this. You can't. We can't."

Which was true. Even Ibriina and all the wealth and power of his great Line couldn't bring back the dead. So why shouldn't he carry on with his party? Why shouldn't all his Elite friends carry on worrying about their investments and swilling high-grade?

"You know what they said when they turned me down for medic training?" Aratron asked, fixing his optics on the wall, "They said Cybertron had enough medics. Didn't need any more. Wasn't worth training someone who wasn't in the top eight percent unless I wanted to go into the military. Better to be a bodyworker, because that's what people wanted." He waggled his fingers. "That's what everyone's always told me. I've got the kind of hands people want. Not that they need." The newsfeed was back to images of the craters. He looked at them and slumped a little. "Wonder what they'd say now."

"That you couldn't get trained fast enough to make a difference there. That Racetrack still needs you. That people will still want bodyworkers when this is all over. And there's no point glaring at me because it's not going to change any of that."

"All right! Point taken." Aratron thumped him on the shoulder. "You want me to watch this out there with you? Fine. Why not? It's not like that'll make any difference either."

"Right! So come help me clear Ibriina out of Skyiom Blend. He can afford it and we need to stop you feeling guilty over things that aren't your fault. So come on!"

Gauun grabbed Aratron and physically dragged him to the door. The last thing he caught from the newsfeed before he was pulled back out into the party was that, in a shock move, Polyhex had instituted a massive scale-back in its weapons stockpiles.

* * *

><p><strong>Virulex District<strong>

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

He was alive!

Probably. The presence of sensory input – sound, light, pressure – suggested that was the case. On balance, continued awareness was a reasonable indicator of continued life. The clues added up, so to speak.

So yes, he was alive. Which was more than he could say for the mech lying next to him, with arms blown off and chest caved in. That was lucky. Lucky for him. Not for the mech. Obviously.

He struggled to get up. The ground shifted around him. Which made sense. He had been in a residential block when whatever it was happened, so the 'ground' had likely been there as well, or holding 'inside' up or being the roof.

Whatever it was that had happened. Yes. Except it was pretty obvious what had happened, wasn't it? Viilon hadn't listened to him. Hadn't stopped anything. And the Vosians had pulled the trigger. Boom. And of course Viilon's logic would have come up with the obvious answer. Double boom. All hail the might of the Shockwave.

Should have killed him when he had a chance. Not that he had had a chance. Being in the same room as Viilon was not an opportunity to kill him. Likely it wouldn't have solved anything anyway. Someone would have blamed it on the Vosians and everything would just have gone to the Pit faster. Bad idea. Stupid idea.

Pointless line of thought. It had happened. They had blown it all up. Game over. Everyone lost. Obvious outcome. Easy to predict. Success. Yay.

Someone's face was tangled in his foot. Just the face, blown clean out of the head. Optics shattered, mouth gaping. Big. Probably a tank. That was funny. The scrawny investigator survives and the big tough tank gets smashed to bits. Little, little bits.

His laugh did not sound good. Had his voice been damaged? There was dents all over him. Broken internals. Some oil leakage. If it was his oil. It might not be. His forensics package seemed to be offline and his eyes were still crackling with static so he couldn't tell right off. Better save a sample for analysis later.

Was Viilon still alive?

Hypothesis: as the logic-worshipping head of a cult of unhindered scientific advancement that had taken a broken city, remade it, then made it extremely powerful before getting it exploded, Viilon had the wherewithal and technical know-how to construct some sort of shelter from even the worst bombs.

Antithesis: given that Tarn had, in fact, been exploded, there were obvious flaws in Viilon reasoning that meant such a shelter was not a dead certainty nor guaranteed to have worked out properly.

Synthesis: pending. More evidence required.

That's what he needed to do. Get more evidence. Look for clues. Dig up the dirt. Get to the gears of the matter. Go on the trail again!

Yes. The rearrangement of the local topography was going to make this harder than it might otherwise have been. But what was life without challenge? And it was the same matter, after all. Just . . . rearranged. There would be a clue, a trail, a lot of dirt.

One great big wide gaping open lot of dirt –

Oh yes. He still had a face on his foot.

He shook his leg vigorously until the offending article detached and bounced and clinked away across the former-tower, current-pile-of-rubble.

That was better.

After a micro-cycle of processor-burning thought, he decided that following where it fell was as good a direction to start in as any other.

You had to be methodical about these things, else what was the point?

* * *

><p><strong>The Celestial Temple<strong>

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

"This is intolerable! How much longer are you intending to keep me here?" Haacano did not stop driving up and down the room to shout at the Temple guardsmechs barring the door. His turret tracked them as he turned, his barrel glaring. "It has been two days! I am a ranking official and I –"

"Not any more," Elita said bluntly, cutting loudly across the rant, "Any rank you possessed has been abolished by the expulsion of Tarn from the High Council. As has been explained – repeatedly – you are being held by request of the Magnus' Office pending a investigation and judgement on the actions of the Tarnian government –"

"The Tarnian government?!" He shot into biped form so fast his body shrieked. "The Tarnian government reacted to AN ATTACK! Vosian missiles were already BURNING MY HOME TO SLAG when we fired back! Are we to be judged for trying to DEFEND OURSELVES?!

Utterly unmoved, her arms at her sides, Elita looked him in straight in the optic. "_Naturally_ the Vosian government is _also_ under scrutiny. You are not being singled out and you are not being victimised and my mechs are here as much for _your safety_ as to keep you in here. While you are shouting at us all day long in here, Red Watch and the Civic Guard are busy outside keeping Tarnians and Vosians from killing _each other on the streets_."

Haacano's face quivered with barely contained rage. That he contained it at all was something of a minor miracle. But he did and slowly the anger drained from his frame, flared plates and snarling tracks settling back down. He folded his arms and opened his mouth.

Before he could say anything, Elita continued, "Permission has been granted for you to receive approved visitors. I suggest that you address any questions you may have to them." She stepped aside to allow a slender golden figure to enter.

"Xaaron!"

The Emirate acknowledged Haacano with a slight nod, then spoke to Elita. "May we have some privacy?"

She did not look happy about the idea. "If you wish, Emirate. We will be outside."

The guardmechs trooped out after her, masked and impassive as always. What they thought of it all was anyone's guess. As soon as the doors shut behind them, Haacano stepped eagerly forward. "Xaaron, please tell me you're here to –"

He stopped as the other mech held up a hand. "I am here," Xaaron began evenly, "on behalf of my government. They are considering their response to the developing situation and feel that you may be able to offer some insight into how events may continue."

"Xaaron . . ." Haacano repeated bemusedly, "I'm certain you know more about what's going on than I do! All I've had are these damn newsfeeds! You're the first reasonable person I've seen since – What do you want from me? I haven't even been allowed to try to contact _my_ government!"

Xaaron looked past him at the engravings in the walls. His optics slid across to the image of Atraplex rising from the Iron Sea and he hissed quietly. "Do you realise that you are probably the only member of your government left alive?"

"What?" The tank's mouth dropped open. "I . . . that can't be true. I assumed – there were contingencies. Surely someone has – there must be someone!"

"If there is, they have not been located. The most we have managed to find – by which I mean, the most the combined efforts of the Defence Directorate and the global diplomatic channels have been able to find – is an operational overseer in charge of the Simfur occupation. Who is understandably perturbed by the idea that she has just outlived everyone further up the chain of command."

"This is not a time for jokes!"

"Who's joking?" He walked over and traced the line of fins along Atraplex's tail. "The point is that there is no one left to speak for the people of Tarn. Or Vos. We haven't been able to find a single surviving member of the Conclave either."

"But that's . . . there must be someone. I cannot be . . ."

"It would seem you can. You and Graviitus appear to be the only ones left to represent your peoples. And to be held accountable for their actions."

Haacano came up beside him, urgently bright optics reflected in the golden metal of the wall. "What are you saying?"

Xaaron hissed again. "You know exactly what I mean."

"So we _are_ to be punished for defending ourselves? And all the while, the scavengers strip-mine everything left behind. Oh yes, I know the Altihexians are already trying to take the Vosian refineries. How long until someone goes after our energon reserves? Will they even bother to wait for Council permission?"

"Nova Cronum at least will be doing all in its power to ensure that the focus remains on helping the survivors," Xaaron told him tiredly.

Haacano rolled his tracks derisively. "Please. As if any state is going care about the fate of my people when there are fuel and technology reserves for the taking!" He swept his arm in a great, cutting arc. "No wonder you wouldn't all stand with us against Vos! This is the best outcome you could have hoped for! Now we're both ripe for the picking and to the Pit with everyone who has died –"

"Did you hear about Polyhex?"

Xaaron's interruption threw him off mid-gesticulation. What had been a furious stride forward became a stumbling step. "What?"

"Polyhex. I assume you must have since you have been paying attention to the 'feeds. They're destroying their photon missile stocks. Not just vowing to scale-back their stockpiles. They are actually and publicly dismantling them. Every last one of them. The Stanix Parliament is voting on an action to halve their missile stocks in their entirety. There are a dozen similar proposals being discussed across the planet. If the Prodium government doesn't go through with it, they will likely be dragged screaming from office." Xaaron drew his forefinger back from the engraving. "Tarn and Vos have appalled the world. That could yet mean an atrocity on this scale will never be allowed to happen again." Walking slowly past a depiction of the Fall of Cronum, he circled around the room before facing Haacano again. "It will certainly mean no sympathy for those responsible."

The Tarnian shifted uncomfortably. Whatever righteous indignation had fuelled his earlier outbursts had drained from him now. "I . . . Xaaron, I cannot . . . I represent my people, I did not decide their path. You cannot hold _me_ responsible for everything that . . ."

"I do not. Broadly speaking, my government does not. But soon the initial horror will be over and the reality of life without the Vos/Tarnian fuel reserves will start to sink in and then it really won't matter whether you had any control over what happened or not. As I said, you and Graviitus are the only ones left to _be_ held responsible."

"But . . ." Haacano stood there, utterly lost, the full meaning of Xaaron's words finally working its way under his armour. All the pride and bluster of the seasoned politician faded, leaving a lost old mech with no idea what he was supposed to do next. "It . . . it was never supposed to go this far," he whispered hollowly.

"Yes." Xaaron shuttered his optics. "That was exactly what Graviitus said."


	39. Small Differences

**4.4:**** Small Differences**

**Refugee Camp**

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

"If we can't be certain this is the last of them, can we are least be sure that this is most of them?"

Megatron stared down at the rows of temporary shelters stretching across the wasteland below them, his mouth set in a grim line. A few micro-cycles of silence passed before he responded to the Magnus' question. "Ravage?"

"The refugees account for seventeen percent of the combined populations of Vos and Tarn," the lieutenant stated blandly from his position at his commander's side, "Considering the size of the areas that remain intact or at least accessible, the analysts are saying this represents the kind of numbers they would expect."

Everyone looked over the side of the hover platform, each no doubt performing their own mental calculations about how bad those numbers were. Ravage looked up at Megatron, contemplating the movements of his optics and the minuscule changes in his expression.

"We've allocated shelters as the refugees have arrived," Optrion observed, probably just to say something, "There hasn't been time to work out how best to distribute them outside of prioritising the wounded . . ."

"So we can expect a certain amount of . . . friction." Deca Magnus nodded solemnly. "It's unavoidable I suppose."

"Would you expect them to just lie down and give up their differences?" Megatron said, not quite snapping.

The blue and red mech moved fractionally, his gaze rising to meet the horizon. "No. I would not. It is pointless, a complete waste of energy and a depressing failure to learn anything from this atrocity but I fully expect the factionalism and fighting to continue. The best we can hope for in the short term is that the need to care for the injured will outweigh the need to cause more damage."

"Forgive me, sir." The Civic Guardsmech at the back of the platform overlaid the landscape with icons and statistics as she spoke. "but we are already seeing instances of sporadic violence between the relocated civilians."

"I did say it was the _best_ we could hope for."

Optrion spoke up again. "I spoke to the engineers this morning. They think they can bring the top strata online and generate some more robust housing even though the local control linkages are decayed."

"How exactly would that help?" Megatron demanded.

"Better accommodation. It help ease tensions. It would certainly aid the recovery of the injured."

"No amount of domestic comforts are going to_ ease tensions_. We need to separate the Vosians from the Tarnians."

"So we can replicate the stand off that created this mess?" The Magnus almost sneered. "We cannot expect these people to cooperate willingly but equally we cannot just accept their hostility. We are not going to have the resources to create two camps."

Megatron's hands twitched. Ravage slunk aside as he stepped over to talk quietly and fiercely to the taller mech. "If we do not separate these people, there is going to be more death. The anger – it will not go away with a few words."

"Of course not. But for the moment at least we need to do this on the ground, not by drawing new lines on the maps."

The phrase hit home and Megatron frowned. "So, what? We put a soldier at every door to guard against arguments?"

"Soldiers and Guardsmechs," Deca corrected. His fingers drew lines over the paths between the shacks. "Visible patrols, roving medical teams. Enough to reinforce that we are here to help and that we will not tolerate continued violence."

"So they can resent us rather than each other?"

"If that is what it takes."

"That will not help us when it comes to getting them fuel and repairs." Optrion drew his own lines over the camp. "Any infrastructure we put in will be limited. We're going to have to hand supplies out by hand. We need their cooperation –" He broke off, distracted by something below them.

"Another reason not to split the refugees, sir," the Guardsmech said, "Central distribution will be easier."

"And bring the two sides together even if they are actively trying to avoid one another." Megatron snarled dismissively. "We'll be forcing the conflict on them!"

The Magnus rounded on him. "You seem determined to have us believe conflict is unavoidable. At least if we set the location for distribution –"

"We are not talking about some quaint local dispute or a sporting event that needs marshalling! These people have watched their friends and brothers burn to nothing!"

"I am well aware of that! Please do not assume I don't appreciate what is going to happen here. But whether they like it or not, we are going to need them to cooperate with us and with one another –"

"That is optimism beyond the realm of sanity!"

Ravage could only agree and made a cursory assessment of the Magnus' physical vulnerabilities. Megatron had moved even closer to Deca now, passion overriding protocol. If this disturbed the other mech, he did not show it and his response was delivered with calm sincerity. "No. It is a goal that we must achieve or this has all been an appalling, unforgivable waste."

Megatron backed up, hissing. Slowly, his anger ebbed. "Perhaps. Yes. A . . . noble goal."

"A practical one."

"Not in the short term. Whatever you say about keeping them apart, that is exactly what you propose we do, one fight at a time."

"At least that way some of them might realise they are in the same –"

"Would you excuse me, Magnus, Commander, sirs?" Optrion asked suddenly, "I need to attend to something."

And without another word, he jumped off the platform.

* * *

><p>It was not the only fight he had seen. But it was the one furthest from anyone else who could break it up and the one that looked the most one-sided: three heavily built hexes against a lone blue mech, pounding away at him with their claws and tails.<p>

Optrion aimed his fall just behind the larger of the three, flaring his armour as make-shift ailerons. He struck hard, throwing up a cloud of dust and jarring every system in his body. Luckily, the shock of his arrival stunned the hexes long enough for him to recover the use of his motors and by the time they started to react, he was already moving.

He grabbed the biggest of the three first, catching him around the shoulders and flinging him bodily into a nearby wall. The nearest of his two friends shrieked in anger and stabbed at the interloper with his tail, unfurling a wicked spike. Optrion shifted easily around the inexpert attack, battered the tail away and drove a fist at the owner's unguarded optic strip. It connected with an unpleasant crunch.

The remaining hexe took advantage of being as-yet untargeted and, leaving the blue mech lying in a pool of his own oil, circled around behind Optrion. He sprang as the soldier was busy pulling his fingers out of his friend's face, using all his legs to execute a tremendously powerful leap that would have propelled him squarely on to Optrion's back. Would have, if Optrion had not spun aside at the last instance and allowed one hexe to collide with another.

The first attacker got back on his feet and faced him warily, one arm hanging loose and useless at his side. His four optics contracted to points, flicking to his groaning comrades and back again.

"Stay there," Optrion advised. Keeping careful watch on the hexes, he walked slowly backwards to the blue mech's side and knelt. The instant he looked down, the big hexe surged forward. Without looking up again, he raised his right arm and launched a shock grenade from just behind his wrist. The grey disc hit the hexe in the chest and he went down squawking and spasming.

The blue mech's injuries were extensive but thankfully not life threatening. He was larger than average, a flyer from his design, and that size had undoubtedly let him survive the worst of the beating. Not that it was much better than 'survive'. Closer examination showed that the mech's internal systems were responding in the slowest way possible. Which likely had something to do with the massive stretches of scorched and melted plating across his back. What was left of his wings hung limp and useless from his shoulders.

He moaned, voice corrupted with static as Optrion eased him on to his side. "No . . . please . . ."

"It's all right. I'm here to help. Just try and stay calm."

Orange optics slowly focused on Optrion's face. "Who . . . ?"

"I'm here to help," he repeated, "Can you move?"

"I . . . yes. Yes." Joints grinding, the flyer managed to struggle to his knees. "Th-thank you."

"Vosian scum!" shouted the big hexe, surging forward

"Sir." Optrion lifted his arm again. The Tarnian slammed to a halt, throwing up his claws defensively. "Thank you. Just give this mech some space and then we can all go about our business in peace."

Worried faces were emerging from the surrounding shelters, no one quite committing to forming a crowd yet but everyone eager to see what was going on. Some started working their way around to join the three attackers and he could only hope that they would not want to follow their example.

"I . . . my friends –" The flyer abruptly reached out for Optrion's hand. "They're hurt! I was trying to get help when – I . . ." He shrank back, looking fearfully at the hexes.

Optrion took his hand and gently helped him up. "I have medical training. Show me where they are and I'll do what I can, at least until we can get a proper team to them."

"We have wounded too!" cried the hexe with the spiked tail.

"Yeah!" echoed one of the mechs who had been gravitating towards them. "We've got people hurt all over here!"

"Why're you helping a fragging Vosian and not us?" the big hexe put in, emboldened by the support.

Optrion looked over at him and held his gaze, expression neutral. "Because you attacked him."

The crowd shifted, still angry, no longer quite sure of where it was aiming that anger. The three hexes bristled, flaring and snapping. The one with the spike jerked forward –

Without anti-grav lift and landing so the full force of the impact resounded across the immediate area, Megatron slammed down in front of them. None of his weapons were active but that hardly mattered. His sheer mass was more than enough to make the Tarnians back off.

"There will be no. More. Fighting." The words ground from his mouth, vocaliser barely containing the simmering fury that showed in his optics. He glared down the hexes then swung around to address the rest of the crowd. Above him, the hover platform slowly descended, the Magnus leaning forward and resting his hands lightly on the guard rail.

"We will help you all," Megatron declared, "regardless of where you are from! You will all receive the same aid. You will all be held to the same standard. There will be no. More. Killing. There will be no. More. Violence. You will not harm the injured! You will not squabble over who is to be treated first! You will not be treated better than the Vosians and they will not be treated worse than you!" He stood there for a moment, as if daring anyone to contradict him. The echoes of his voice chased between the shelters and the absolute silence of the crowd.

In ones and twos, the Tarnians started to slip away. Optrion saw the spiked hexe pause, eyes flaring, before disappearing with a contemptuous flick of the tail.

Megatron's feet crunched on the uneven ground. "Is this one all right?"

Optrion glanced at the flyer, who was leaning heavily and awkwardly against him. "He should be. Thank you."

"Hn. Wouldn't want you to think I discouraged your acts of suicidal morality." His optics were slowly fading back to yellow. He crossed his arms, studying the shelters and the people watching from the shadows. "Even if you can't actually break up every fight on your own."

"Perhaps not, sir," Optrion acknowledged with the slightest of shrugs, "I will let you know if I come up with a more general solution."

"Good. You there. Where are these friends of yours?"

The flyer stared at him. "A – ah – th-they're east of here. I c-can show you."

"Show me," Optrion said firmly, "With your permission, Commander? I might be able to save the medical teams the trip out."

"Very well. You are excused duty acting ballast on a hover platform. Report in to the coordination hub when you've assessed the situation."

"Yes sir!" He could not actually salute and support the flyer at the same time but he tried to put the intention into his voice. Moving carefully, he began guiding the blue mech away, plotting a path through the camp. Behind them, the platform slowly descended to retrieve Megatron.

As it touched down, Optrion paused and glanced back. "Commander – the Magnus is right: splitting the Vosians and Tarnians up is the worse option. We'll never prove to them that we're treating them all the same if they can't see us doing it."

* * *

><p>Megatron stared after Optrion until he and the Vosian were lost from sight among the shelters.<p>

His fingers curled and uncurled compulsively. It was a habit he had developed a long time ago, when control of his emotions started to become important. The movement substituted for whatever he actually wanted to do, which was usually an inappropriate display of violence. Likely this had saved numerous people from an inconvenient level of damage.

Optrion's words chased from processor to processor, his mind working to dissect the Iaconain's observations. Megatron had learnt to value his subordinate's observations. For a temple-minded mech, the truck had a sound tactical sense and a deep streak of stubborn loyalty that put the soldiers he served with first. Off-world, those combined to make him a useful counterbalance to the more mission-focused members of the battalion. Now those same instincts were leading him to observations on what would serve the refugees and if he was anywhere as near the mark as he usually was . . .

It was not that Megatron objected to being questioned. Only an idiot failed to accept judgement on his plans from other perspectives. No. The issue was that he _knew_ the people they were dealing with. He _knew_ that violence between the survivors was an inevitability and his very spark rebelled against anything that would perpetuate that violence.

Yet . . . Optrion was correct. Neither side would accept that they were being given equal attention if they did not see it. Of course they might not even then, but divided they would certainly start to make claims of unfairness. And the Magnus was right as well – if no attempt was made at reconciliation was made, thousands would have died achieving nothing. That too was unacceptable.

Ravage appeared at his side, examining him curiously. Megatron was aware of the Magnus and the Guardsmechs on the platform behind him, no doubt wondering why he was staring into the middle-distance. Let them wonder.

"I assume the Lieutenant Commander will not be returning with us?" Ravage purred rhetorically. He would have monitored the entire exchange and would already have fed the relevant information to the communications net.

"No. It seems he feels the need to remind me he joined up in the medical division."

"You seem . . . troubled." The black quad hesitated over the observation. It was rare for him to voice such comments in the open. Perhaps this time it was simply too obvious to ignore.

Megatron said nothing. He allowed his hands to relax and jerked his head up. The sky above was full of drifting dust clouds and the smoke rising from the burning energon fields. He cycled through different wavelengths and resolutions, tracking the mingling particulates.

Central distribution would be easier. He stiffened, the thought taking him off-guard. The idea that formed around it was equally unexpected but in moments he was sure of its worth. Its simplicity alone might be enough to make it successful.

"Come." He marched back to the platform, Ravage following at his heels.

The Magnus stepped aside to allow him back on board. "This diversion is over?"

"Yes. Pilot: take us back to the hub. I need to address the camp."

* * *

><p>Ravage opened the emergency channel as ordered and moved aside to allow Megatron to step up on to the transmission dais. A swift check of the ping-backs from across the camp confirmed that his image would be broadcast to every working receiver in the area, whether the owners wanted it to or not. There were benefits to etheric warfare that sometimes outmatched those of the physical kind.<p>

Deca Magnus walked slowly around the dais. He had said little since Megatron announced his intentions and his posture was guarded, giving little clue as to what he was thinking. Purely for fun, Ravage painted him with the outcome of his earlier tactical assessment, picking out the lock points for his armour, the slightly slow rotator on his lower left arm, the sub-optimal sensor coverage on his right flank.

"Are you sure doing this will be helpful?" the Magnus asked, sending the question under heavy privacy shields.

Megatron looked sideways at him, hands clasped behind his back. "You aren't?"

"I am not certain. I want to know if you are."

"Certain that it will work? No. Certain that it must be tried? Completely."

The Magnus looked away, at the feeds covering the walls with images of the refugees and the people trying to help them. He nodded, once, sharply. "The arrangements the Civic Guard is responsible for have been made. I suggest you go ahead and make your announcement."

Adjusting his stance minutely, Megatron triggered the dais.

"Attention. I am Field Commander Mega Mech Tron of Defence Directorate Off-World Battalion Four, acting commander of all Defence Directorate forces operating in this region. I am addressing you from this camp's coordination hub. Over the past nine days, my soldiers have been working to extract all surviving citizens of Vos and Tarn and bring them here for medical processing ahead of rehousing. At this time, we and the Civic Guard emergency response units are still attempting to deliver proper treatment to all those who require it. Further – it is unlikely that rehousing will be possible in the immediate future. The entire region has been compromised by the destruction of Tarn and Vos' superstructures. We do not know where you will be able to go.

"Therefore, for now, this camp is your home. It is also ours. We will continue our efforts to care for you and will live beside you until such time as a more permanent solution can be found. We will live beside you and you will live beside one another.

"I am aware of the tensions that exist in this camp. Many among you are attempting to maintain the divisions that caused the war that brought you here. Many have chosen to continue fighting, even though those they fight are often incapable of defending themselves and are innocent of the crimes for which they are attacked.

"This is what I say to that: as hard as it may be for you to accept, you have suffered equally and you shall be helped equally. If you wish to respond to that by continued hatred, that is your choice. But from this moment on, fuel supplies will be divided precisely. Distribution nodes have been set up at key points across the camp. You will have already been made aware of their locations. Energon rations will be distributed from these nodes to two people at a time. To one Tarnian and one Vosian at a time. There will be guards at each of these nodes to prevent any coercion. What you do with the fuel once it has been collected is up to you. As I said, it is your choice. Waste it on maintaining divisions and putting up walls if you wish.

"Just remember that you will need to cooperate the next time you start to run dry. Megatron out."

The dais powered down. Megatron shuttered his optics briefly. The Magnus crossed his arms. Ravage lingered with his mind in the networks, collating feedback from the broadcast points, the faint beats of receivers being struck in anger or left to fizz into silence.

All optics turned to the feeds and the people they showed and everyone waited to see what would happen next.


	40. Walking Wounded

**4.5:**** Walking Wounded**

**Refugee Camp**

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

Optrion folded away his sub-fingers and withdrew his hand from the green and black flyer's chest, letting the panels seal up her endostructure. Her optics glowed briefly then settled back into dim quiescence.

"Will she be all right?"

He smiled across at the blue mech anxiously watching from the other side of the little dug-out hut. "She's going to be fine. I've put her into restorative stasis-lock. If you make sure she gets a steady supply of fuel for the next couple of days, she should make a full recovery."

The blue mech – whose name was Cashcoui – relaxed a little, shoulders dipping in relief. His other friend, a smaller, stockier flyer in yellow, was already slumped in peaceful shut-down at his side, the temporary patches Optrion had fitted across his cracked injection systems already merging with the lines of his torso. Left untreated, both would have been dead within the day but proper outside attention was all that was needed to fix them up.

He flexed his hands, relishing the opportunity to exercise his medical training. It felt good to remake rather than break. "Now then," he said, standing up, let's take a look at you."

Cashcoui grimaced but obediently sat down on the floor, where it would be easier to get a good look at the injuries to his back.

"Does your commander really mean it?" he asked as Optrion began probing the damage, "About only giving out fuel to a Vosian and a Tarnian together?"

"If Megatron says something, he usually means it."

"But . . . they hate us. It won't work. No one will get any fuel."

"Is hate stronger than hunger?"

"I . . . I don't know."

"Then I suppose we'll find out together. Hm."

The damage was, in some ways, more extensive than on the other two flyers. Whilst they had suffered heavy impact injuries from crashing, Cashcoui had taken the full brunt of a shock wave while in flight. Most of the panels on his back were warped out of shape, some burnt away entirely. It pushed the limits of what his systems could hope to restore and was busy draining all their resources into the attempt.

"Can you feel anything in this?" Optrion asked, digging delicately at a blackened actuator.

"Not much. Most of it's just dead metal."

That was hardly a surprise. Heat wounds were always the worst for sensory loss. And then there were the wing mounts. Burnt away almost completely, what was left fused down to the most basic level. It would require far more than a patch job and field repairs to restore function there.

He stepped back, considering the pattern of the damage before glancing at the green and yellow flyers. "You tried to shield them from the heat-flash."

Cashcoui laughed harshly. "I wasn't trying to be a hero. We were all going down, knocked out of the air, and I . . . I spread my wings as wide as I could. Thought it might protect me."

"And them?"

"I guess so. Wasn't really thinking."

"It's a good instinct."

"Yeah. Lot of good it did." He turned his head, looking over his shoulder. "It's bad, isn't it?"

"It's not good. But it's not irreparable. I can give you a set of medical packages that should help seal up some of these gaps."

"All right . . . but . . . what about my wings?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Will I ever fly again?"

Optrion hissed and laid a hand on Cashcoui's arm. " The wound is deep. Likely it will need an infusion of active proto-matter. Even if you went for physical reconstruction, you would need to regrow the armatures."

"And . . . you can't spare any 'matter. Can you?"

"I'm sorry. As bad as the damage is, it's not life-threatening. Given that . . ."

"Yeah."

"Once this is all over, I am sure you will be able to –"

"Hah!" Cashcoui jumped to his feet, throwing off Optrion's hand. The thrusters in his legs flexed open and closed again. "I'm a low-grade cargo lifter. I'd never be able to afford that kind of repair. And there are hundreds more like me. No one would bother funding it for me."

"Even if that's true, you could still go in for reformatting –"

"And never fly again?!" He stared at Optrion, aghast. "I'd sooner die!"

"I'm sorry."

Cashcoui slumped again. "It's not your fault. Thank you for . . . for helping me. Really."

"It's my duty," Optrion told him. He let his diagnostic systems close down and then reached into one of his storage compartments. "Here." He took out a canister. "This is battlefield energon. It packs more of a kick than standard fuel, so it should last a fair while. I'm going to hook it up to your friends with iso-locked feeds. No one else will be able to access it. I can't promise no one will try, but they won't be able to get it open without wasting the contents."

The flyer took the canister, optics wide. "Th-thanks. You're sure you won't miss this?"

"I will, but I'm more efficient than a civilian. I'll cope. Just hold on to it while I pipe them in."

He fished out a couple of feed tubes and fixed them to the canister before extending them to reach Cashcoui's friends. "As I said, it will be a couple of days before they're up and about. This is for you in the meantime." The connections made, he handed Cashcoui a standard emergency ration, the same kind they had been giving out to all of the refugees on arrival. "Use it up slowly and don't move about much. Once this runs out, go to one of the distribution nodes."

"And find a Tarnian willing to collect fuel with me instead of beating me up?"

"Yes. Don't worry. We'll get things calm. I promise."

The Vosian put his head to the side. He looked at the fuel in his hands, then at the other two. "I don't believe you," he blurted suddenly, "No – I mean – I believe you'll try but the Tarnians – they hate me. Us. They want us dead. Doesn't matter how clever your commander tries to be, he's not going to change that. And I can't fly away! I want to! I want to leave them alone and go somewhere they'll leave me alone but I can't! I can't." He broke off, dropping heavily to the ground.

"Cashcoui . . . did you fire missiles at Tarn? Did you want their city levelled?"

"What? No!" His eyes were wide again. "I never . . . that was just . . . everyone was always saying how terrible the Tarnians were but I'm just a – a lifter! I wouldn't have . . . as long as they weren't bothering us – well, that's all we wanted. Them to leave us alone!"

"I think if I asked the same question of a lot of the Tarnians in this camp, I'd get the same answer. Maybe even from the people who attacked you. And don't forget: they now need your help to get fuel as much as you need theirs."

Taking one last look at his patients, Optrion stepped out of the shelter and into the darkening night. Half a micro-cycle later, Cashcoui stumbled after him, grabbing hold of his arm. "Hey! Thanks. Again. Really. I . . . get it. What you're saying. I'll . . . try and do what your commander says. Sounds like he's trying. Maybe it's about time someone did."

"Maybe." Optrion gripped his hand for a moment. A gesture of solidarity. "I will try and see you again."

"Thanks," the flyer repeated.

"Now. If you don't mind, I think if I'm going to try and do what my commander says as well, I had better go and help a Tarnian or two."

* * *

><p>It was hard to stay out of sight, especially in the daytime. He had to skulk between the ramshackle shelters and makeshift living spaces, keeping close to the tilting walls and away from the camp's thronged thoroughfares, trying to move about as much as possible and so avoid the risk of being recognised. Layers of grime clung to every facet of his body but he dared not try cleaning them off. The dust of his city protected him. Without it . . .<p>

Being flown in to the camp, he had imagined himself taking a position in organising the Vosian refugees, perhaps joining some form of committee of influential persons dedicated to rebuilding. They would need something of that kind, a group who could lead the survivors into restored fortunes. He would present himself as having been a humble adjutant, responsible for little in the old government but knowledgeable about its workings. He would impress with his understanding of due process and the practical requirements of forming a new leadership. And yes, he would have hidden talents as an orator that would gradually come to the fore. Rising to prominence would be but a matter of time.

Only there were no influential Vosians in the camp. No focal points around which the refugees were rallying and no one inclined to do so. Chaos ruled, people milling around in confusion when they were not huddled on the ground nursing debilitating injuries. Worse yet, they had to share the camp with the damned Tarnians. Brawls were a daily occurrence and the scatter-shot manner in which people were housed made it impossible for the two sides to avoid one another.

And then someone recognised him.

Sarristec hugged himself at the memory, pulling his body further into the meagre shade of an overhanding metal sheet. The big red and white workmaster half-rising, focusing through furiously working repair packages, optics narrowing, words forming in his mouth, the unmistakable beginnings of angry realisation on his face –

Sarristec had fled and not looked back, stumbling along walkway after uneven walkway until he was sure he was unseen again and was hopelessly lost. Only luck kept him from straying into a nest of Tarnians or colliding with a soldier or a Guardsmech. His mind filled with paranoia, his senses running hot and at cross-purposes.

It left him wandering in a kind of panicked delirium for a while, running from pursuit real or imagined until warning symbols flashed up in his vision, telling him insistently that he had nearly burnt through his fuel ration. So here he was, a scuttling turbo-rat hiding from the morning light, watching hungrily as people gathered around the knot of soldiers and their energon tank. There were maybe twenty refugees all told, both Vosians and Tarnians, congregating in groups of threes and fours on opposite sides of a rough circle of empty ground. The soldiers eyed them nervously, shooting encrypted messages between themselves and fiddling with their weapons systems. The refugees murmured, their disgruntlement clear. No one wanted to make the first move.

Clearly, the mech in charge of this fiasco was deranged. To inflict this nonsense of co-collection on them was an act of insanity as much as it was one of injustice. To expect them to cooperate with those barbaric murderers –

He shuddered again, this time from the pangs as his fuel pumps began struggling to find energon to circulate. Half a cube! That was, if not all he wanted, all he thought he would need to keep going. But he might as well have wished for one of the moons. No one would follow through with this absurd 'equality' notion. It was an insult! What true Vosian would debase themselves by acknowledging unity with some Tarn-born thug?

One of the Vosian refugees stepped hesitantly forward. A quad, wide-chested with a tail that trailed ragged wires and scars that dug deep into his shoulder blocks. He pawed the ground then took another step, loping out into the clearing but not approaching the soldiers yet. His green optic strip swung left and right before fixing on the largest group of Tarnians. He planted himself on his haunches and waited.

The Tarnians looked at each other. The Vosians too, several of them calling out to the quad to come back. He stayed his ground and kept staring at the mechs opposite, tail flicking. One of the Tarnians began to walk forward but was held back by his fellows, their voices rising in anger. The soldiers became fully alert, their private banter evaporating. One of them transformed her arm into a gun. Her captain glared at her. He did not tell her to disarm.

A truly enormous feme broke away from the Tarnian crowd. She too was shouted at but simply ignored the calls for her to stop. Her great bulk thumped forward, tracked feet pummelling the ground until she was standing an arm's length from the quad. Bits of her crude body actually hissed with relieved pressure as she settled to a stop.

The onlookers fell silent, not daring to move. Sarristec shuffled a little way out of his hiding place for a better view, in turns disgusted and astonished by what he was seeing.

The feme spoke first. Her voice, of course, was grating and rough. "How many cubes you need?"

"There are seventeen of us," the quad told her, tail stilling, "including the ones who can't get out here."

"That one each?"

"Yes. What about you?"

"Thirteen. But . . . some of us ain't very efficient. Seventeen of the size they hand out won't be enough."

"I see. How many?"

Her hands, little more than huge clamps, opened and closed. "Twenty-one. Minimum."

"Very well."

"Yeah. Except . . ." She gestured at the other Tarnians. "They don't want to see you stockpiling. We're all weak. Some Vosian heavy gets to full power . . ."

"Yes." The quad turned his head. "So we need four more people. I don't think that will be hard. Are you willing to wait a couple of cycles?"

The Tarnian actually laughed. "You think we got a choice here?"

"Not so much, I suppose. All right!" he shouted at the Vosians, "You heard! We can fuel four more. There must be someone nearby. Yeah – you hiding back there! Are you really going to run yourself empty over pride? What about you? And you – yes, you! You Vosian?"

Sarristec stared back at the quad in blind terror. He couldn't – the risk – the _Tarnians._

But his hunger won out and he dragged himself up, staggering to join the other refugees. If it were over quickly, if he got away before anyone really noticed him, then it would be fine. It would be. He'd be fuelled and it would be fine.

"There," the quad said, "That's twenty-one."

"Yeah," the feme agreed, "Fine. Let's get this over with."

Together, not quite at the same time and not quite in step, they went over to the soldiers. The captain put his hands on his hips. "Twenty-one cubes each. Sidetrack, fill 'em up."

The soldiers started handing out the energon and Sarristec kept his optics lowered. Those around him were not really paying him any attention. They were too focused on the fuel, even those who had been rightly decrying the whole thing. That was good. They wouldn't notice him. It would be fine.

A sharp, startled noise made him glance sideways. And he nearly cried out in horror.

As smeared with dirt and grime as the rest of them, one claw snapped clean off, his face-plates twisted and his fine detail work crumpled and torn, Lord Myyoc was still eminently recognisable. He was poised precariously on his three intact limbs, tail rigid with shocked recognition. The former defence minister of Vos, reduced to a beast at bay. Different only from the former energy minister, perhaps, in responsibility for their situation.

Sarristec did not dare speak, or move, or do anything in case it provoked the other to give him away. Would that paralyse Myyoc too? If so, for how long? How long would it take to get the fuel and escape? What were the escape routes? Was the way clear behind him? He couldn't tell. His sensors were still failing him. The sky was lost to him. And if Myyoc did chose to –

"Here pal." A boxy mech who might once have been brown held an energon cube out for him. "Don't use it all at once, hey?"

With trembling hands, Sarristec accepted the prize. There. That was it. Now to leave.

The mech's optics narrowed. "Hey," he repeated, colder, "You look just like –"

"That's Myyoc!" He barely thought about what he was doing, what he was saying, just reacted, pointing, accusing, raising his voice as high and loud as it would go. "Lord Myyoc!"

It worked. Around them, people turned, seeking the source of the disturbance. Myyoc cringed, splaying his neck plates and skittering backwards. His mouth worked, trying to summon words. Too late.

"Myyoc?"

"Yeah, Myyoc!"

"The one who ran the Defence Ministry?"

"Yeah, that's him!"

"That's the slagger who said we'd be safe from Tarnian missiles!"

"He let them fire at Tarn!" Sarristec shouted over Myyoc's stuttering protests, "He did this! He's the reason we're in here!"

It was so easy. One cycle there was calm, the energon being shared out, a moment almost of accord between Tarn and Vos, the _unimaginable_ – the next, a dozen Vosians were shouting, raging, oblivious to the soldiers calling for order. Sarristec did not see who threw the first punch. Someone must have though because suddenly Myyoc was being assailed from all sides. There was no plan to it. No coordination. A stray blow knocked Sarrsitec over and the world spun around him, filled with noise and confusion and screams of pain.

His energon cube landed just out of reach. A foot cracked down on it, splintering one side, spilling the precious liquid. Desperately, he threw himself at it, managing to wrap his body around it and roll aside as more people homed in on the fight and the cause of the fight. Vosians, Tarnians too. _One of them! One of the people responsible! One of those who are to blame!_

He half-crawled, half ran away, clutching the broken cube to his chest. Behind him, Myyoc's screeches cut off and the soldiers opened fire.

* * *

><p><strong>Refugee Camp – Eastern Approach<strong>

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

"Another two fights yesterday evening."

"That's still six down on the day before."

"Lot of people getting hurt."

"And some starting to cooperate with each other. There are reports of people starting to share across the city divide. It is getting better."

"At the moment. A little."

Diatrion braked to a stop at the top of the rise, testing his suspension against the uneven terrain. "There is a difference between realism and pessimism, you know."

Clutch slewed up behind him, transforming and crossing his arms. "S' that what you are? A realist?"

"I'm looking at the facts and drawing a realistic conclusion about how things are progressing. So yes."

"Right, right. That's what it is. 'Realistic conclusion'. Not 'insane optimism'."

"All I am trying to say is that treating the situation as being worse than it is will be as unhelpful as saying it's better."

"And all I'm saying is that Vosians and Tarnians have been hatin' each other for longer than any of 'em can remember and that's not going to change just because Commander high-and-mighty Megatron orders 'em to stop."

"You really don't like him much, do you?" Diatrion observed, wheeling a little further so he could look down on the camp. It stretched for maybe a hundred hix in all directions, row after row of hollow cubes, built in all sizes to accommodate all kinds of people. In theory, everything was arranged on a standard grid pattern. Theory had not survived contact with reality however, and thanks to geography and hasty construction, the layout of the camp became increasingly confused the further out you got from the central hub. On the fringes, the shelters were being thrown up without the slightest concession to municipal planning.

"See this is why you're the investigator and I'm just a lowly constable," Clutch said, transforming back to truck mode and revving his engines, "That keen deductive insight o' yours." He steered north, following the curve of what was left of the road, Diatrion following with a soft chuckle. "S' not exactly him, I suppose," the Guardsmech went on, "Just soldiers. Don't like them. Never have, never will."

"We would never have been able to handle this without them."

"They're shooting people, Dia. I know it's only stun charges and I know we'd probably be doing the same eventually but it's what they do straight off."

"To stop the fights you were complaining about."

"How many people you know get up from a stun charge in a good mood?" Clutch rocked on his axles. "Military's fine for blowing up aliens but you don't want their sort on crowd control when it's actual people they're dealing with."

"Actual people as opposed to aliens." Diatrion let that hang in the air between them.

"You know what I mean! Those poor slaggers down there have lost everything. How do you expect them to act with a bunch of gun-modded tanks pushing them around?"

"Would they react any better if it were a lot of white and blues pushing them around? This is the situation we're in. We have to deal with it as it is."

"I know that. Going to be hard, is all I'm saying."

Diatrion chose not to point out that had been obvious from the start.

On the horizon hunched the still-burning ruins of Vos, the dull glow of the fires a lingering reminder of just how many had not been lucky enough to make it out, in any shape. The latest estimates suggested it would be another quartex before the ground cooled enough for anyone to enter the shattered core of the city. The energon fields? They would likely keep burning long after that. A million million atroleders of fuel in storage tanks and refinery tunnels, all of it feeding the inferno.

There would be no going home for the survivors. But there _were_ survivors. Hundreds, even thousands had been saved. As difficult as the days ahead would be, that was reason for at least a little optimism.

"What's that?" Clutch asked, breaking carelessly across Diatrion's train of thought.

His sensors were pointed at the opposite horizon, where the air was clearer and the distant lights were the perfectly ordinary kind. Diatrion followed his gaze, searching for whatever it was that had attracted his companion's attention.

It was not hard to find: a slab, sharp and black against the sky. Zooming in revealed its scale (immense) and its method of propulsion (a series of huge anti-gravity engines). The finer details matched with a Class Seven bulk transporter platform, prospector/refinery sub-type. A kind that hadn't seen service in mega-cycles, not since the last great drive to extract endo-Cybertronic energon. A museum piece.

Out-riders swarmed around it, a small army of helicopters and avir. Together, they made a truly impressive sight.

And the whole lot was slowly flying on a direct course for Vos.


	41. Upheaval

**4.6:**** Upheaval**

**Refugee Camp**

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

"Heave!" Megatron thundered, tightening his grip on the chain.

As one, they obeyed, every soldier in the line and the two Air Guardians towering on either side dragging at the grapples sunk into the crust fragment. It ground in its housing, lifting fractionally before mega-cycles of corrosion halted its progress.

"Again!" he roared, winding the chain around his hands another couple of times. Behind him, the others braced themselves afresh. "Now! Heave!"

That did it. With a great, grinding and crunching, the fragment finally came loose from its ancient prison. Working with the momentum, the Air Guardians bore the brunt of the weight, firing their jets. The piece of Cybertron's skin rose up and up, thicker than Megatron was tall. Immediately, the engineers sprang into action, driving gravity-repulse spars into the sides, which hummed into life to take the load, letting the jets haul it aside.

Megatron stood back to watch the fragment drift lazily away. More engineers and a horde of technicians scurried around him, swarming down into the chasm left behind. They busied themselves opening up ports in the ancient geological machinery, the technicians transforming and seamlessly interfacing into the walls. Soon, the fissure was full of humming silver boxes, faintly glowing in the darkness.

"Have to say," said a bronze mech, coming up beside Megatron with holograms flickering around his hands, "this is looking a lot better than I expected. The surface linkages are corroded but the sub-structure is responding fine. And the fuel lines connecting out to the Tarn and Vos networks are pinging back as sound. Should be able to use that."

"What for? I assumed this would all work off local planetary energon reserves."

"The actual elevation will, sure, but we need something to power the pumps to draw it up into the mechanism. Shouldn't be a problem, we won't need much to get it going. The fires in the main fields haven't reached down to where those lines connect."

"Very well." Megatron nodded. "How long until you can begin?"

"We can get started right away. In fact . . ." The engineer checked some of his calculations with a frown. "We _should_ get started right away. The corrosion not going down as far as I expected means the geo-stasis response is kicking in already."

"Understood."

Triggering a communication channel, Megatron reached out to the immediate area. _"All units: clear the uplift zone immediately. Squad six, hold the perimeter and prevent and onlookers getting too close. Ravage, lock sky-spy feeds with a three hix border."_

His soldiers sprang into action, falling back as ordered and taking up new positions. He did not really expect any of the refugees to actually try getting close but it paid to be cautious and there were the observers – members of the Vosian and Tarnian military and a few civil officials – to consider. If something went wrong, he wanted them as far back as possible and not getting in the way while the engineers tried to fix it.

The bronze mech nodded, confirming that the area was clear to his satisfaction. He of course would need to remain on station with his technicians, monitoring their activity throughout the process. Megatron intended to be at his side throughout. He accessed the feed from the platforms hovering far overhead and examined the long, barren strip of land that had been chosen. It stretched, not quite entirely, from the far boundaries of one city to the next. Waste ground, abandoned by societies that had exhausted their natural resources, it contained very few existing structures and those were limited to ancient monitoring stations. Nothing anyone would consider a loss when they were subsumed.

The chatter between the technicians spiked. The engineer focused his holograms into a single monitoring sphere, routing in every facet of his mechs' activity. He wove a representation of the local sub-strata, a fraction of the great sleeping machinery of the planet, all tunnels and channels and vast, twisting columns. Icons flickered around them, almost too fast for even Megatron's senses to track.

Far below them, something groaned expansively. Lines of power flashed across the image, signalling that the pumps were running. The engineer flexed his hands. "All right. Generation online. Power levels rising. Commencing primary unlocking."

The ground shook. Rattled. Megatron felt the minor seismic shifts of connection ports and panel-to-panel seals disconnecting. That, as he understood it, was the easy part. The entire area would now be unsafe, a minefield of loose geography. But in real terms, it was just the equivalent of putting feet on the ground. A necessary preamble to the main event, nothing more.

"Begin formation sequence," the engineer ordered. His projection flickered and sparked. The technicians' cross-talk changed, becoming faster and more complex. Another shudder ran through the ground. Something rumbled, something deeper than anything awakened so far.

It happened all at once. There were reasons for that. The interplay of the mechanisms within the continental plates, the necessity of ensuring an even transformation. It was not simply a matter of elevating the surface. The entirety of the plate needed to be rebuilt, restructured, each part resting on the others and providing them with support. When they rose, they rose as one, a great tide of metal washing into the sky.

Pillars jumped up and curved into arches and spans. Walls and walkways were lifted around them, doorways falling naturally into place. Modules piled one after the other into whole buildings. Looking over the edge of the island of stillness at the centre of it all, Megatron caught glimpses of the voids left below being turned into yet more levels. Living quarters, maintenance bays, homes and infirmaries desperately needed, springing into being.

He knew many who looked down on technicians as a kind. With their boxy, immobile alternate forms and total lack of distinguishing features, they were as far from the ideal the fashion-setting elite cultivated as it was possible to get, never mind that any self-respecting labourer would sooner chop off their arms than inhabit such a defenceless frame. His own contempt had seldom been hidden. Never again after seeing this though. The ability to reshape the very planet, to raise towers from the ground . . . there was power there. True power, not just the exercise of strength, blow by blow –

Yet another shudder, far more violent than before. Their island was not still any more. Megatron barely kept his footing and it was only his thrust-out arm that saved the engineer from tumbling into one of the chasm his team had created. His optics were wide and fearful as he tried to restore his scattered projections. Around them, the buildings slewed and bent, their advance grinding to a stop.

"What is happening?" Megatron demanded, grip tight on the engineer's shoulder.

"Power loss. Vos-side pumps are shutting down. We've losing momentum." He spun and shouted at the technicians, bombarding them through the ether. "Lock the structures! Seal everything!"

With a crash of bolts, the transformation ceased completely. The buildings stilled, fixed into shapes that were not quite right. They slanted and hunched, some of the openings distorted to the point of uselessness, some of the walkways collapsed to leave higher levels inaccessible. The grand new town, warped before it was finished.

Groaning, the engineer sank to his knees, extending knife-like probes from his fingers and driving them into the ground. For nearly two cycles, he was still like that, analysing, comparing readings with the technicians who, one by one, detached and climbed from the fissure. Megatron paced impatiently behind them, keeping his temper in check to let the them work.

Finally, the engineer stood up. "The structures are stable," he said, "Mostly usable. There aren't any weak points, thank the Flame. We might be able to make some improvements on a case by case basis, interface directly with areas where the access points are functional. But we need balanced operation from both sides to effect large scale change and the Vos side is . . . dead. I'm not getting any reading from the inflow pipes. Either one of the controllers has burnt out or . . ."

"Or?" Megatron's voice turned deadly, already at the conclusion.

"Or someone deliberately deactivated the flow from the Vos energon fields and shut off the feed to the pumps. Without them, the macro-mechanisms starved. We were lucky to catch it before collapse really set in."

"It wasn't a malfunction? Damage to the feed lines?"

"No. I checked them myself and we had an entire survey team out there yesterday tracking which lines we could use and which were damaged. No way did they just break on their own."

Megatron forced his hands to open. His mind spiralled through monitor reports for traffic in the Vos area, although he knew for certain that there was only one relevant entry. With a growl, he triggered a communication channel and ordered Ravage to gather a squad. Then he hurled himself into tank mode and drove west in a roar of treads and fury.

* * *

><p><strong>Silver Ridge Technological Foundation Reclamation Base<strong>

**Remains of Vos**

**Cybertron**

The chief prospector was, at first, oblivious to Megatron's anger. He hurried to greet the cohort of soldiers bearing down on his platform with evident enthusiasm, smiling and rolling his shoulders. Perhaps he viewed the impending encounter as a welcome relief from the tedium of his work.

Any such thoughts were dispersed the instant Megatron transformed and seized him by the neck.

Ignoring the prospector's wings beating at his arm, he shook him hard. "What. Do. You. Think. You. Are. Doing?"

"What are you –"

Megatron shook him again. Behind him, his soldiers fanned out, weapons systems inactive but primed. "You interfered with the energon fields. _Before_ we were finished. We told you how long we needed. We gave you the _minimum_ time we required. And yet you _began to drain the energon fields before we were finished_." He brought the prospector's optics level with his. "Explain. Now."

"We completed our surveys! Head office ordered us to start immediately! They ordered us to –"

"And you did not think to _inform us of this_?"

"There was no time – we've been hired to extract as much energon as possible! The longer we leave it the more burns off in the fire – when they said immediately, they meant it! There wasn't time! Just look out there!"

Gesturing with his left wing and claw, the prospector flapped at the inferno raging beyond the platform's shields. "There are thousands of atroleders of high-grade going up in smoke every cycle longer we leave it!"

"That fuel belongs to the people we were try to provide proper shelter for!" Megatron bellowed into his face.

"That fuel belongs to the Kalis Trade Authority! They bought it before the Vosians decided to commit suicide by photon missile! That means they get to decide what to do with it and they want it transported to their reserve tanks. You have a problem with that, _sir_, you take it up with them!"

Utterly disgusted, Megatron flung him away to land in a heap amid the half-circle of mechs who had gathered in response to the commotion and watched with their rotors spinning nervously. The prospector shrugged off their offers of help and turned a frightened, determined stare on Megatron, half-daring him to do more and risk a full-blown incident, with all the potential for military tribunals and disgrace that implied.

Megatron's mouth twisted. He spun to glare at the web of pipes and lines sunk into the fuel fields, stabbing down beneath the flames consuming the surface. "Oh, believe me, I will do better than that!"

* * *

><p><strong>Command Platform<strong>

**Refugee Camp**

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

"_We fully sympathise with your position,"_ the shimmering figure of the Emirate said, _"and Nova Cronum is more than willing to donate resources to your efforts. But we do so from a position of luxury not shared by those states formerly dependent upon Vosian fuel. Kalis' actions were precipitous but they are understandable. It is unlikely the Council will censure them for what they have done. And it will almost certainly embolden other states to begin to claim fuel they believe they are owed. If Silver Ridge's work to extract energon from beneath the fires is successful, they will no shortage of employers."_

Megatron hissed with frustration. "I am well aware of that. But thanks to them, we were not able to provide the refugees with the shelter they desperately require. I would like to remind the Council that air currents continue to spread contaminated matter over this area. Temporary shelters are not going to protect these people long-term and with the planned elevation incomplete, we _do not have enough room_ for everyone who needs it."

Emirate Xaaron folded his arms and tapped his chin. _"I appreciate that, Commander. The full resources of the Defence Directorate are one thing but they cannot be expected to conjure fuel and shelter from thin air. Unfortunately, that is not an appreciation that all of my colleagues share. Certainly not within the individual governments. They see resources being mobilised and assume that those alone will be enough. Or don't care if they aren't."_

"I see. So these people here are just to be left to their fate. Is that it?"

"_Perhaps. The wonderful thing about the Council is that it allows such views to be balanced by those of us who do not concur. Please send me full records on the incident. It will be helpful to our arguments to have proof of the consequences that blindly seizing resources from the Vos/Tarn ruins will have. I wish I could promise you an immediate reversal in attitudes. More likely it will simply provoke some better behaviour in the future. Would it help you if the feed lines from Vos were reactivated and placed at your disposal again?"_

Grimacing, Megatron shook his head. "Uncertain. My engineers are still assessing the impact of the sudden stop. It is possible some of the control mechanisms have fused."

"_Meaning the underlying structure will be stuck as it is until the planetary repair systems have cycled through the damage. Unfortunate. I'm sure Deca Magnus will already have this covered but if you require any civilian expertise that you cannot otherwise obtain, please let me know. My contacts are at your disposal."_

"Thank you Emirate." He frowned, then straightened, "And thank you for your time."

"_Not at all, Field Commander."_ The Emirate smiled. _"You were given an unenviable task. What you have achieved so far is highly commendable. I am certain your efforts will be remembered for a long time to come."_ His smile faded. _"I would however suggest that you prepare for things to get worse before they get better. Iacon out."_

The image died. Megatron rested his hands on the rim of the projector, resisting the urge to ball them into fists. It would not help. Not with this. _I am certain your efforts will be remembered._ Perhaps they would. But what was the point if they had no effect? And what had caused the Emirate to sign off with such an ominous sentiment?

"Did you really expect anything helpful from a politician?" Ravage asked, responding as easily as he always did to thoughts Megatron had yet to voice. He was curled around himself, lying in the corner still enough that the casual observer might have assumed he was shut-down.

"The Council is _supposed_ to serve Cybertron's people."

"They have no idea _how_ to serve. What experience of real life do they have? How many battles have their fought? How many times have they had to deal with people starving in the ruins of their homes?"

"The Emirate of Nova Cronum was a soldier. He left Tarn to join the Defence Directorate and served off-world. The Emirate of Protihex was on the front-lines during the Siege of Paradron. The Emirate of Iacon served too, even if it was as a medical officer. They're not all ignorant."

Ravage's tail flicked dismissively. "Perhaps they're not. But they _serve_ the ignorant. There's not one government out there that isn't riddled with Elite dross, overflowing with wealth and privilege and very much lacking in common sense. The Kalis Trade Authority is a pack of gabbling merchants and they practically run their city. The Tagen government flails about because no one in it has the respect of their own people. And those are the kinds of people who really control the Council. The Emirates are at most pleasing figureheads." He stretched and rose on to his haunches. "You know that as well as I do. In other times it has been you who have called them fools. Why did you expect this time to be different?"

Megatron shuttered his optics, feeling a tremor of emotion run down his arms. He hissed again. "I hoped. I hoped it would be. That the suffering and destruction might have made them . . . might have forced them to change. The Council has the backing of the Prime, the Prime tried to stop it, I thought – I hoped – that might be enough."

"You are a soldier," Ravage told him after a moment, "You are forced every day to react to circumstance, to adapt and change so that you may do something greater. It makes you strong. They are removed. They can pick and chose what they react to and how they react to it. And they chose self-interest. Always. They know no other way."

Releasing his hold on the projector, Megatron let his arms fall to his sides. He spoke to the far wall. "Sometimes your way of thinking disturbs me."

Ravage laughed, soft and low. "Of course it does. If it did not, I would not be so useful to you."

"Still. Some days even I think you're too cynical."

"You have never disagreed with that attitude."

"Hn."

That hung between them for a little while, the unspoken accord. Megatron's gaze fell on the empty surface of the projector, his own hard expression reflected at him from the black glass.

"Enough wasting time." Ravage slipped into step with him as he walked to the door. "Time to begin moving the refugees into the new buildings. We can't wait. Contact the chief medical officers. Their equipment should be in place by now. Get me lists of critical cases that will need to be moved first. After that, medical priority will decide the allotment of quarters. Instruct the engineers to begin setting up fuel distribution points in key structures." Megatron bit off the words and stopped for a micro-cycle. Then quietly added, "And once that's done, we're going to start preparing for the worst."


	42. In Memorial

**4.7:**** In Memorial**

**Refugee Camp**

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

"Hm."

Ratchet let that hang in the air for a couple of micro-cycles, examining his readouts with studied thoughtfulness. The trac fidgeted uncomfortably and looked up at him with the kind of worried expression that can only really be caused by a medical professional making a non-committal noise.

"You're gonna be fine," he admitted after savouring the moment for just long enough that it was not actively cruel, "The abrasions on your wheels should close up in the next couple of days. Everything else has sealed over already."

The trac's bristling antennae relaxed in relief and he tested his wheels a little to confirm the diagnosis. "Thanks!"

"Yeah, yeah, don't mention it or everyone will be expecting me to miraculously cure them." Ratchet clambered awkwardly to his feet and ducked back a few steps. "Stay under cover and keep your wheels under you as much as possible. And go easy with the transformation for a bit – don't go changing shape just 'cos you want the latest racing results."

The trac laughed cracklingly. "No fear. Never got to place that bet anyway."

Ratchet left him to trundle a little deeper into a nest of protective sheeting and settle in between an off-line mech and a feebly twitching quad. He climbed out of the loosely constructed shelter and felt the usual pang of despair at seeing the camp in the daylight. Everything around him was grey. Not just the temporary structures or the artless, lopsided towers local satirists were already calling 'The Kalis Concession', though those were all uninspiringly drab and lacking even the most basic infra-red signposting to break up the monotony. The whole landscape was processor-meltingly dull. The fires on the horizon had dimmed to a distant simmer and in their place was dust. Lots and lots of dust, blowing in on the winds from the Iron Sea.

It turned the resolution of the world down a few notches and made the people as drab as their surroundings, to the point where Ratchet wanted to shout a lot and try to get everyone he could find over-energised just to shake some life back into the place.

If only it were that easy to shake life back into the people too.

"Bad news?" The reassuringly red shape of Lieutenant Commander Optrion appeared beside him, looking down in concern.

"Not this time," Ratchet said darkly, shutting his diagnostic tools down with a firm snap, "But since every poor slagger out here's one radioactive particulate away from going straight back to 'barely functional', I'm not throwing a parade for it. You found any more room inside?"

Optrion glanced towards the tower he had just left. "Not any that would offer much protection from the weather."

"Hn."

"The engineers have started building some more permanent shelters at the western end though."

"I know. They're still trying to get panels to bond to the ground. This rusted-over sink-hole doesn't like modern building materials, apparently. Meaning, it actively hates them."

For a well-built warrior capable of stopping fights with a look, Option could look adorably crestfallen sometimes. Some perverse part of Ratchet's psyche found it quite cheering to see him metaphorically slump at the news. "Oh come on, don't be like that. What did I teach you about misfortune?"

"To let it make you bitter and miserable, then drink high-grade until you forget about it."

"So I was trying to be a counter example. And it's not like you ever paid me much attention anyway."

Optrion looked away.

Because of course memories of _that_ argument were the last thing he wanted to think about right now. Ratchet dug a foot into the rough ground and ploughed on before the big guy could start feeling ashamed. "Which is way down on the list of things making me bitter today. You get anywhere with those Tarnian slaggers you were going to try and talk down from – what was it? Tearing down one of the Vosian buildings or something?"

"I don't think they really knew what they wanted to do," Optrion said with a shrug, "They were just angry about people being stuck outside. There was some talk about trying to empty out buildings some of the Vosians were using but I think they had managed to talk themselves out of that before I arrived. It's starting to sink in that everyone's in the same position."

"About damn time."

"They ended up proposing a sort of . . . not quite militia, more a kind of public watch to keep each other from doing something rash."

"Or to keep the Vosians out of their territory."

"Perhaps . . ."

Ratchet could see Optrion straining to believe that the more optimistic interpretation was the right one. And maybe he could see some truth to it too, even through the cynicism of a life spent at the edge of mortality. People adapted to the circumstances they found themselves in and past the savage patriotism and mutual hatred, the truth was that they were all stuck in a Pit of their own making. In such a situation, grudging cooperation was the only long-term survival strategy worth a damn.

Of course that overlooked the fact that most people were idiots.

"Come on." He thumped Optrion in the side. "I've still got rounds to do and you haven't got anything better to do than keep me company."

"Actually, I'm supposed to be checking in with the west-side patrols. There's some coordination issues with the Civic Guard officers assigned to that area."

"That's not for another twenty cycles and I'm going west anyway. Through here, keep up."

"How is it you always seem to know where everyone is supposed to be at any given time when you don't come to half our briefings and barely pay attention when you do?" Optrion wondered, ducking to follow Ratchet under a warped flyover.

"Who says I don't pay attention? Anyway, I need to know where all you blockheads are so I can anticipate the damage you'll do to yourselves. Which Guardsmech is it you're seeing?"

"Not sure. That's part of the problem, communication between us and them. Why do you ask?"

"Eh, there's one of 'em you should meet. You'd get along: you have the same attitude to life and limb."

"You're always telling me I recklessly endanger myself and you want to introduce me to someone who'd encourage that behaviour?"

"Ah, shuddup."

* * *

><p><strong>Remains of the Caltok Exchange<strong>

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

Coming back had been pointless.

Navigating from the gutted remnants of the cargo interchange tower, he traced the streets he had once known only to find them so changed as to be unrecognisable. Precious few of the old landmarks remained even when the damage was factored out. The warehouses where he had worked were long gone, replaced with densely automated facilities whose inner workings now gaped at the sky from behind shattered walls. The paths he used to run daily twisted away from him on to new tracks, making unexpected turns around alien structures of undefined purpose. Even the descent shafts, plunging into the substrata, the nearest thing to true immovable objects in the city, had been modified to the point of being unrecognisable – tangled debris spoke of barriers and anti-grav matrices bolted across once-open levels, ancient elevators subsumed by the latest science.

Megatron peered into the depths and wondered if Viilon's inexorable technological improvements had eradicated the illegal gladiator pits or merely driven them further underground.

It was strange, realising how little he felt at the annihilation of the world of his past. He had lived and laboured in this place for mega-cycles. From the first time he had taken an alternate form until the Chromite War, Tarn had been home. He supposed that entitled it to some claim on his affection, yet looking around at what it was now reduced to, his only real emotion was lingering anger at having failed to prevent its destruction. He could detect no sensation of loss within himself, not even for the scores that would now go forever unsettled. The place, even the people he had known – they were irrelevant except that their loss harmed Cybertron. And in many cases, not even that.

So many of them were criminals. He had worked for them, shifting their wares, then fighting and killing for their greed or amusement until it bored him. They were small-minded, insignificant mechs, trapped in tiny cycles of profit and revenge. They meant little to him and mattered less. In offering himself up to the state as an athlete, he had escaped their existence for a larger world where their limitations became only more blatant. The anger, threats and even physical retribution that had come after him had been so easily dismissed.

He spun on his tracks and drove back towards the interchange. Two heavies, sent to drag him back in defeat. He remembered the sound of their armour buckling, the satisfying grinding _snap_ of their limbs ripping loose. His last kills for a while. The official bouts were staged things, run on the rules of entertainment, not survival. They required a different kind of viciousness: more directed, more controlled. Fighting for his city's pride in front of baying crowds had taught him restraint, of a kind. He had needed that.

When exactly had he first seen the bigger picture? Prejudice against Vos did not survive contact with their athletes. Good, honest thugs in the pay of mindless aristocrats, they were hard to hate. But actually understanding how small and narrow the life he had led was . . . that took time. He saw the mighty engines of Polyhex, the crystal gardens of Altihex and the golden walls of Iacon before his horizons expanded far enough for him to see Cybertron as it truly was.

How little he thought about that. A turning point in his life and yet merely a passing moment. It had been soon after the first time he had visited the Celestial Temple. The tower, the halls of heroes – they had impressed him more than he would ever admit. Their age, their defiance of time, the enormity of a city that could shield itself bodily from harm, all those things combined to leave him with a respect for the ancient Iaconians that he would never otherwise have allowed. But in truth, that had just been dazzle and spectacle. No. What had really changed him was going up to one of the sub-orbital complexes and looking down.

Cybertron had stretched out beneath him in a vast arc of cities and spans and chasms, all alive with motion and energy, all building and growing. Iacon was a hub, an axis for that movement, but it was just one among many and the scale of it all had left him speechless. All those lives, all those people, all that industry, coalescing into something greater, something that had lasted and would last far beyond any single state or government. A mechanism, orderly in the chaos of stars that surrounded it, spinning on from the beginning of time to the end.

It was not religion. Not the belief in some transcendent meaning in the world. But the belief in the world itself, in its right to exist and to become better and mightier the longer it continued.

Then the war had come, another empire trying to steal the place Cybertron's children had made for themselves in the cosmos. Unacceptable. Unforgivable. Megatron had gone to war and had stayed at war ever since.

He transformed before the interchange tower and stared up at its broken form, hung with train tracks torn loose by the detonations, cursing again the fools responsible. The magnificent whole he had glimpsed all those stellar-cycles ago was wounded now, vital components damaged perhaps beyond repair. At least he was not alone in his horror. The Prime saw it, clearly. The Magnus too, and even some of the Council. They shared the anger, the fury and shame of onlookers faced with the consequences of standing by and being able to do nothing. If they did right by it, if they took strength from it, they would stand against the fools who remained among them, the parasites who would pick over the corpses and learn nothing.

Ravage doubted they would show that strength. Ravage doubted everyone and saw only the worst in others. Megatron had never asked why. But he hoped that this time, the cynic was wrong. More than hoped. He _needed_ him to be wrong.

If all the people he had known from his life in Tarn were reduced to slag and vapour, it meant nothing. What little they ever added to Cybertron was far outweighed by what they had taken. They did not matter. Their deaths did not matter. The rest though . . . Tarn and Vos in their entirety, two whole cities' worth of useful and productive citizens, the strong and the clever alike . . . the only way that cost could be justified was with change for the better.

He did not think himself prepared to live in the world where that did not happen.

* * *

><p><strong>Verous Arena<strong>

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

Blades spinning in time to the frantically whirring tracks of the tanks below, a cloud of heli-forms rose through the amphitheatre and swept low over the crowd, counterpointing their motion-distorted sound with strobing light. The mourning chant deepened in pitch, the tanks whirling slower, the singers reforming so their words reverberated over and over. A lone avir soared skywards then plunged to the ground in a spiral of complex databursts, the faces of the dead superposed with the flames of war. It was a spark-rending theme within a composition that combined the best parts of Tarnian and Vosian musical artistry in a fitting and affecting tribute to those who had been lost. One would have expected nothing less of the Lor-Galun Choir.

Xaaron was fairly certain he could count the number of actual Vosians and Tarnians in the arena on the fingers of one hand and all of them were in the choir itself. The audience was Iaconian, Praxian, Cronium, Paxian – all those who looked in on the crisis and grieved by proxy. The show was for them: a nice, clean expression of shared distaste for what had happened. One that, ultimately, achieved nothing but a few eased consciences.

If, indeed, there were consciences that needed easing.

"_You need to stop this proposal."_

Tomaandi ignored him at first, schooling his face to look suitably downcast as the choir moved into a second act and set about conjuring up images of long-dead glories. Xaaron persisted. _"Your government must know that in the long run this will be as self-destructive as allowing Vos to dictate your energy policies in the first place."_

The crimson mech shifted irritably in his seat and glared sideways at his neighbour. _"This is hardly the time!"_

"_I think it's exactly the time. Or are you not paying attention to the scale of what is being commemorated here?"_

"_'Commemorated'? You make it sound as if we are celebrating!"_

"_Not at all. Although some might question the motive behind commissioning a memorial to those who have died and not inviting the survivors to the performance. But that is not the point. The proposal from Praxus, Kalis and Prodium. You have to stop it."_

"_I personally? Don't be ridiculous."_

"_You as a representative of your people! Tomaandi, you cannot seriously expect me to believe that this sits well with you? What is being suggested . . ."_

"_Is necessary."_ He flicked another scowl at Xaaron. _"We have to secure our people's future."_

"_It is _wrong_."_ It was hard to keep from actually vocalising the word. He wanted to get up and shake Tomaandi until he got some sense from the mech.

"_No," _the other Emirate corrected coolly, "_It is distasteful. There is a difference."_

"_You talk about destroy hundreds of lives and you call it 'distasteful'. Your powers of understatement amaze me."_

"_Whereas your sarcasm merely irritates me."_

Tomaandi actually turned his head to look at Xaaron, optics narrowed accusingly. _"Whatever the cost of this decision – and in spite of what you think, it was not taken lightly – this needs to be done. Someone needs to take over where Vos and Tarn left off. And – fortunately or otherwise – it makes sense for the fuel concerns to be divided between those of us who are not already overburdened with existing mining projects."_

"_By which you of course mean Praxus?"_ Xaaron asked, with as much sarcasm as he could convey.

"_And why not?"_ Tomaandi rejoined angrily, _"Nova Cronum has more than its fair share of mining colonies. Time I think for the rest of us to get a chance."_

"_Will you listen to me? I – we – don't care if you have more mines to you name! By all means, take over managing those colonies. But for Primus sake, work _with_ the miners already there! They have the expertise, the experience – they _know_ their planets. Use that! Don't cast them aside just because of who put them out there!"_

"_We couldn't possibly trust them. Besides. They would hardly want to work for us, would they? It was their own deranged patriotism that led to this situation."_

Regaining some composure, Tomaandi returned his attention to the choir. The heli-forms were forming shapes in the air now, patterns that intersected with the hypothetical extensions of those being created by the tanks and a set of racers who zipped between their slower brethren like lighting between clouds. There motion spoke of the conflict between the lost cities, etching it as some tragic historical imperative that could have ended no other way.

"_I respect your position, Xaaron. Really, I do. The problem is, I do not live in a city that has a the luxury of placing higher morals above practical realities. This needs to happen. And we have the support. Not just Kalis and Prodium. Altihex, Tyger Pax, Tagen – they'll all be behind us on this."_

"_Tagen would support anyone who give them a lifeline out of the social implosion they're heading for!"_ Xaaron struck his fists on his knees, going for one last, hopeless appeal. _"It was ignoring 'higher morality' that got us into this mess! Can you really not see that this will end with exactly the same mistakes being made, not to mention life being made intolerable for –"_

"_Xaaron. Shut up and watch the show."_

And of course there was nothing else he could do except exactly that.

* * *

><p><strong>Triumvirate Chamber<strong>

**Planetary Defence Directorate Command**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

They had removed the restraint claw, which was somehow far less reassuring than he expected. He stood pinned in a beam of light at the centre of the darkened chamber, quite unable to find any comfort in being freed. Given where he was, 'freed' was an extremely relative term.

"Field Commander Vieux Mech Uun Novus Hexus." Supreme Commander Grandus' voice boomed from wall to wall. "You stand before us charged with the unlawful destruction of a fellow solider, the reckless endangerment of civilian lives and extreme dereliction of your duty as a member of the Defence Directorate. What say you in your defence?"

Vieuxuun focused through the glare and the darkness, discerning the shape of his accusers. The Supreme Commanders, all three of them standing in judgement above him. A crowd of onlookers fanned out around them, soldiers every one. All condemning him for following his orders.

"I have nothing to say," he answered bitterly, "except that I was carrying out my assignment within the parameters set by my superiors. We were ordered to observe and contain, not to intervene. _Megatron_ disobeyed those orders and incited others to disobey them. _I_ acted to prevent open mutiny."

"It is a primary requirement of all Defence Directorate officers that they be adaptable to circumstances beyond their mission parameters," Viktoleo stated blandly, "Megatron's actions were in fulfilment of that requirement and undertaken in defence of the people of Cyberton."

Deftwing made a disgusted noise. "His 'mutiny' might well have saved more lives if you hadn't taken it upon yourself to act as a one-mech court-martial."

Vieuxuun folded his hands behind his back and drew himself up. If he was to be humiliated, he refused to let it been drawn out into a farce. "It sounds as if you have already reached a decision, sirs. I would appreciate it if you would deliver your verdict now."

He saw Grandus shift his massive bulk. "Very well. Vieuxuun: in light of the severity of the charges and your refusal to accept responsibility for your actions, we have no choice but to find you guilty on all counts. With immediate effect, you are stripped of all rank and fuel privileges. Henceforth, you are forbidden from military service. You will be forcibly reformatted into a non-combat form and will be relegated to labour grade operations on the outer planet stations for the next ten thousand stellar cycles. You will never again be permitted to advance yourself or to hold sway over your brothers. May this punishment bring justice for those who can no longer seek it for themselves."

Vieuxuun felt nothing at the judgement. Nothing at all as he was led away to where his form would be torn from him.

They had chosen an ill-disciplined thug over a model soldier who obeyed his function without complaint or contradiction. He just prayed he lived long enough to see them suffer the inevitable disaster that would bring upon them.

* * *

><p><strong>Refugee Camp<strong>

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

Ravage listened and heard all.

Even though the radioactive sleet, he could tap into the feeds showing the stirring eulogy being performed in Iacon and marvel at the crassness of the spectacle. They postured and made a show of grieving for the people they could have saved, the destruction they could have prevented and paraded it before the world as something to take pride in. Look at us, they screamed with their chants and dances, we are the pinnacle of civilisation, the elite of Cybertron, and we persist. Never mind all those poor workers and soldiers boiled to vapour: after this, we can forget and go back to our comfortable lives at the top of the heap.

Below Ravage's perch on the command platform antenna, medics toiled to maintain the broken, engineers struggled to provide shelter for the homeless, and soldiers and Guardsmechs fought to keep the peace between the desperate. A futile exercise in trying to salvage the wreckage, ordered by the same people who were stealing the resources necessary for it to succeed. Did they appreciate the irony of their hypocrisy? Would they even notice the deepening flaws in the Cybertron they were creating, the fractures and contradictions and _weaknesses_ formed by their every inane decision?

Ravage doubted it. They – all those parasites and fools – they would never see beyond their own petty ambitions, never dream of a whole greater than themselves.

So be it. In time, the future would belong those who did see and could dream, who looked at Cybertron and saw what it could become.

And as he arched his back and flicked his tail, Ravage looked past the mismatched 'Concession', past the walls of the camp, past the ugly platforms creeping in to drain Tarn dry, and focused instead on the silver dot driving back from the jagged horizon.

Oh yes. That future would come and he would stand proudly at his commander's side when it did.


End file.
